





DINNA FORGET. @ 






Wipe 


BY 


~ 


JOHN STRANGE WINTER. 





NEW YORK: < 
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12 10 27 VANDEWATER STREET, 













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«We 


. 37 The Abbey Murder............, Joseph Hatton 
\ 38 Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush..Ian Maclaren 
: 39 Addie’s Husband...... Ba AR The author of ** Love 


or Lands”? 
Florence Warden 





40 At the World’s Mercy.......... 





41 Beyond the City................ A. Conan Doyle @ 

42 A Change of Air...........- -,,..Anthony Hope o 
* 483 The Corsican Brothers..... *....Alexander Dumas sa 

44 Diana of the Crossways.. ..... George Meredith = 

45 The Dolly Dialogues..... ive na Anthony Hope S 

46 Doris’s Fortune...... SORRY cnn ana Floregce Warden oS 

“¢ Forging the Fetters............M lexander - 

48 A Golden Heart......... . 1... Oh “Sotte M. Braeme = 

49 The Song of Hiawatha......... Henry W.Longfellow 

60 Her Second Love..........05... Charlotte M. Braeme ms 

51 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker...‘* The Duchess”’ . ba é 

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53 A Little Irish Girl,.........60.. “The Duchess” : 

54 A Little Rebel... .cccscccenccscs ‘* Phe Duchess’? < 

55 Lord Lisle’s Daughter,.........Charlotte M. Braeme ~ 

66 Lord Lynne’s Choice........... Charlotte M. Braeme : 

67 Merle’s Crusade... cee. success Rosa N, Carey 

58. A Marriage at Sea..............W. Clark Russell 

59 The Nine of Hearts..... aero is B. L. Farjeon 

60 The Other Man’s Wife..... .s-.-John Strange Winter 

61 The Price He Paid..........085; E. Werner 

Oe PPM Otero ce es Robert L, Stevenson 

63 She’s All the World to Me egies Hall Caine 


64 Ships that Pass in the Night... 


65 Robert eee Seven Days.. 
66 Stageland.. 


Beatrice Harraden 
.. Rev. C. M. Sheldon 
Jerome K. Jerome 





6¢ The My stery “of ‘ Woodleigh 


(CRG ites Sib es PSG pee ia Bik Be ee Charlotte M. Braeme 
68 My Sister Kate........... ,...OCharlotte M. Braeme 
69 On Her Wedding Morn..... ... Charlotte M. Braeme 
“0 The Story of a Wedding-Ring; 

or, Lured Away.........-...Charlotte M. Braeme 





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John Bloundelle-Burton, 


913 The Silent Shore; or, 
The Mystery of St. 





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932 Queenie’s Whim........ 436 
934: Wooed and Married..... 496 
986 Nellie’s Memories.......546 
961 Wee Wifie. ...2...05.2 54. 3850 
1033 Esther: A Story for Girls.194 
1064 Only the Governess..... 323 
11257AUnE Diand see 177 
1194 The Search for Basil 
Lyndhurst ae one 468 
1208 Merle’s Crusade.......... 226 
1545 Lover or Friend?.........487 
1879 Mary St. Johny. 052.8, 407 
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1968 Heriot’s Choice......... 440 


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aS OHN STRANGE WIN TER, 


ae weuee ov Spore BABY,” “ manvaee,” “svrromn,” ms, 


‘(CHAPTER L 


mx SWEET SEPTEMBER. 


3 


‘It was such a fair day and such a fair view! he 





ge cou re and blue lobeiag and Hae neat ion | tidy 


) some as they walked along together. | a ee 
ee t I come in?” the a said. WC inpongy 








a cad took a curve to the ery feted Ge ge 
i meadow and rising gradually until they reached t 
eo of the old house, with its oe red front a 

















: = « Thank you very oank” for Hiei me kone 
‘ae ae said shyly, but with an upward ater of he 





ae “Yes, but tell me,” ‘he arivcred: not Tetting : 
hie hold of the racket, “ the aunt has gone to 


6 Yes. ee 
: “ Does she often got” 
© Qh, ‘No, not often.” 










aro marion dieres you ‘now, and I oe ‘tha 
perhaps sometimes when the auntie was coming you 
might be coming too, and I might show you rownd 
little—the lions and all that, you know. That was all 
“But I don’t think,” said Dorothy Strode, taking 
m literally, « that Auntie would ever want to be 
shown round Colchester, or the lions, or anythin; g 
You see, she has lived at the Hall for more than fifty 
yoers and probably knows ee ieee a » thousand 

nase as well as eyes do.” a 

























oS. a little at ae own nistake, ‘han added ve: 
suddenly, “ But don’t you think ; your aunt might like — 
to come and have afternoon tea in my quarters S ak 
oe ladies generally love a bachelor tea.” ar ae ae 
«J don’t think she would,” said Dorothy boneaiie: 
a “You see, Mr. Harris, my aunt is rather strict, and 
| aS never does anything unusual, and y At thats o 
moment she broke off short as afairlysmart dog-cart = 
-\ driven by a young man passed them, and returned 
the salute of the occupant, who had lifted his hat as a 
soon as he saw her. 3 
“Who is that?” asked the soldier rather Sealant 
frowning: a little as he noticed the girl’s pee bacg 
-solour. ae 
That is Mr. Steven” she answered, looking Choe 
straight i in front of her. a 
“Qh, Mr. Stevenson. And who is he when he's at 
: home ?” the soldier demanded. __ 
_ “Very much the same as when he is not at home,” . 
answered Dorothy with a gay laugh. 
He laughed too. “But tell me, who is he?” 
Qh, one of the gentlemen farmers round about.” 
It was evident that she did not want to talk about = 
the owner of the dog-cart, but the soldier went on 
without heeding, “And you know him well?” one 
“I have known him all my life,” she said, with 
studied carelessness. RO, 
In the face of her evident unwillingness to enlarge 
upon the subject, the soldier had no pho but to 
let her take the racket from him. | p 
at ee she digs holding out mer hand to 


es 





E: ve fs aS ae 
A ay ee 



























AR ma 
































ay od-bye; : me ies org holding it Ae a or de: 
tas as than was necessary; “but tell me vies 
- come and call?” | J ae 
“Yes, I think you might do that” , as 
“You will tell your aunt that you met me, and e 
that I am coming to call to-morrow ?” 
“That is a little soon, isn’t it?” she said, lughing 
“ Besides, to-morrow there is a sewing mesa ae 
“And you go?” : 
“ Always.” 
“And you like it?” inoredalously. 
_ “No, candidly I don’t; but in this world, at least ir in 
Graveleigh, one has to do # great many things Mane 
— one does not like.” 
“And you might have to do worse things tists ae 
to a sewing-meeting, eh?” he suggested, for it 
suddenly flashed into his mind that there would be 
no gentlemen farmers in smart dog-carts at such 
wae ry feminine functions as oe " 
“That isso. Well, good-bye” = a : 
: - “ But you haven't said when I may come,” "he 
__ eried. 
«No; gay one day next week,” with a gay lang 
“But which day?” 
- *Qh, you must take your chance of that. cae | 
_ bye,” and then she passed in at the wide old gate, and 
disappeared among the bushes and shrubs which 
_ lined the short and crooked mba Ag jority to : 
the house. 
: For.a moment he stood there ooking after her 
then turned on his heel and retraced the steps which - 
he had taken i in Dorothy Strode’ 8 company, and as 












scaly she had Seka hie name, “Mr. Hervia,” it as 
that | farmer-fellow came along to etait her atten. a 












y J ove! he had come away and never told hig that 
his name was not Harris at all, but Ayliner—Riceed 
\ylmer, commonly known as “Dick,” not only in> 
_ his regiment, but in every place where he was known S 
“at all. Now how, his thoughts ran, could the little Aa 
woman have got hold of an idea that his name was 
Harris? Dick Harris! Well, to be sure, it didn't 
sound bad, but then it did not suit him. Dick 
Aylmer he was, and Dick Aylmer he would be to the © 
nd of the chapter, except—except—ah, well, well, — 
hat. ‘was a contingency he need not trouble himself 
bout at present. It was but a contingency and : 
remote one, and he could let it take care of itself 
until the time came for him to fairly look it in ‘the 
face, when probably matters would wpe and 
ony arrange ee. 































ie had ae. his wooing! And with ee 
5 he turned 1 im at the ieee of ie J ane’ 8 Pe wher 


os : Ah, you. are back, “she said, “ “Now, is ‘ih that 
poe nice girl?” eee 
ahaa Charming,” a Dick, sitting down beside 


: by: the tone. She was fond of foci herself a and 
peronls aes like to make a match uD for her. Sh 


: «] heard you say a little fine ago that you wer 
“going away he remarked, ase a moment's pane 7 


| ie able to drive from one’s own door to the | 
- iteelf—one starts so much fresher, you ae _ 








to Kissingen, though itis , trifle. late for oe place. 
‘Then on by the Engadine, Italian Lakes, and to had 
seilles. After that to Algiers for several months.” _ ‘ 
oA al he said in surprise, “really?® 
“Yes, I need a warm climate in the winter, and it 
= : gives Mr. Sturt a change both of life and of sport, B80. 
that he does not really feel being out of England. for 
go long.” 
“And you come back next epring? ¢ 
« Yes; sometime next spring,” she answered. _ 
~ Dick hylings got up then and began to make his 
adieux. 
“Then good-bye, Mr. Hae” said Lady Jane, with — 
B iti cordiality, “and I hope to find you still at 
- Colchester when we come back again. If not, you 
must come end see me in London during the ae 
season.” oe 
“ Thanks, very many,” he said, “but my——” _ 
“Qh!” oried Lady Jane, in dismay, “look, look 1 
the fox-terrier is worrying the Persian kitten. Do 
: rescue it somebody, do, do!” fe s 
_ In a moment the kitten, a little the worse for wear 
a and tear, was safely in her mistress’s arms, and a 
great fuss did she make over it. In the midst of it, 
Dick Aylmer, knowing that his fretful horse was 
dancing about on the other side of the house, said 
good-bye again and escaped. “ And, by Jove,” a 
said, as he turned out of the gates, “she does not — 
know myname either. Iseem bound to be mysterious 
_to-day, somehow or other Evidently she mistook 
me for Haines—or, rather, she mistook me for the 
_ other in the matter of names. Ah, well, she’s going 










Sue 












wore 
















alls ne ‘Harris, or Haines, or Aylmer,” and then ho . 
added to the horse, “ Get along, old man, will you?” 
_ He slackened the pace, however, when they got 
: 0 the turn of the road which skirted the sloping - 
eel meadow i in front of the Hall where she lived, and the 

good horse crawled up the side of the hill as if it 
had been an Alpine height instead of a mere bend of © 
the road. But there was no sign of her. As he 
-. passed he caught a glimpse of the gay flower-beda 

and of a big tabby cat walking leisurely across the 
terrace, but Dorothy Strode was not to be seen, and _ 
- when Richard Aylmer recognised that fact as a fact, 
he gave a jerk to the reins and sent the horse flying 
 elong in the direction of Colchester as fast as hie fous 


: mea legs moald carry bim. 





CHAPTER IL 


DAVID ‘STEVENSON, 


oROTHY STRODE ssid very little to her wet — : 

J about the gentleman who had brought her home — 
os Lady Jane’s tennis party. Not that she volau. 
oar ale alte back, but in truth there was int 
























one of the a ffisens! foul Colchester at the os oe 2 
_ ghe had been his partner in several games of tenniy, 
and finally that Lady Jane had sent him to see ha 
___ safely to the gate. “Our gate, I mean, Auntie,” said 
__~ Dorothy, not wishing to convey a false impression. 
“And David Stevenson, he wasn’t there, Fie 
suppose?” said Miss Pena e, as she sino her 
claret. on 
“No, Auntie, he wasn’t,” Dorothy answered. “ You 
gee, Lady Jane does not like David irae Sot 
much.” | 
“J know that,” said Miss Dimsdale shortly. ie 
On the whole Miss Dimsdale would have likea 
‘Dorothy to marry David Stevenson, who was youl 
and a good-enough fellow to make a good husbantt. 
oe had a well-kept valuable farm of four hundred — 
acres a mile or two from Graveleigh, with a cos- 
"venient and spacious house thereon, of which he was 
very anxious to make Dorothy the mistress. But 
- Dorothy had, with a strange perversity, said nay 
_ over and over again, and she seemed in no desire to 
change her mind now. Miss Dimsdale gave a sign 
as she thought of it—for David Stevenson’s mother 
had been her dearest friend—but all the same, she 
was not the woman to eas to force the childs 
" Inclination. | 
«Mr, Harris asked me if he might call—if m 
might come and see me,” said Dorothy presen : 
after a pause. 
“Mr. Harris! and who is Mr. Harris?” asked! Mae 
| epmines startled out of s reverie about David 
_ Stevenson’s mother, who, by-the-bys, = ano bess » 


ee’ acy 






















se 





‘and dear friend as eho was of Marion Dimsd: 
ee in and married the man of Marion’s 
“Mr, Harris! He is the officer I told you about, 
a he the one who brought me home,” said a 
_ Dorothy, in surprise thet her sunt bee dio not 
remember. s, 
ie ae Oh, yes—yes. oe what aia you say?” | mae 
- “J told him that I thoughthe might” 
“And when?” ee. 
. oo Oh, I told him to take his chance,” Dorothy ae See 
ead: ee 
ind Quite right,” said Misa Dimsdale, we had: no 
notion of making the way of a gallant too easy and > 
pleasant to him. “Well, we shall see what he is 
like when he comes, if we happen to be at home.” 
ae ‘She began then to tell Dorothy all about her day 
in Colchester. What the lawyer had said, how she 
had been to the bank, and had looked in at the 
-_paddler’s to say that the harness of the little cob _ 
which ran in the village cart must be overhauled 
and generally looked to. Then how she had found ~ 
time to go in the faney-work shop and had bought 
one or two new things in that line, and last of all 
on she had been in to the jeweller’s to getanew — 


















ele and this had been offered. to her at such a 
reasonable _ price thai! she had been tempted to 
ye it, 7 co a - ; 











a - “ behcte: ‘chila, there, I won't tele you. about, ‘it 5 
"There it is on the chimney-shelf.” — os 
_ And Dorothy naturally enough jumped up had 

ran to open the box in which the belt was packed, 


} 


“DAV STEVENSON. 


opening it eagerly, and uttering a cry of delight 


when she saw the beautiful ornament lying within. — 


It was a lovely thing, and in her pleasure and pride _ 
at the possession of it Dorothy almost forgot ner new 
admirer, Mr, Harris. . 

Not quite though, for when she slipped it on over — 


her pretty white dress and ran to the pier-glass ae 


between the windows of the drawing-room to see 


the effect of it, she suddenly found herself wonder- _ : 
ing how he would think she looked in it, and 
instantly the swift colour flashed into her cheeks, 


so that she hardly liked to turn back to face the ; : 


gaze of her aunt’s calm far-seeing eyes. 


Miss Dimsdale meanwhile had walked to the Z 


window, and was Whar out into the soft evening a 


dusk. 


“Some one is coming along the drive,” she caid. ahs 
aoe «J think it is David Stevenson.” es 
A gesture of impatience was Dorothy’s answer, ‘ a 
gesture accompanied by an equally impatient — 
-. gound, but she never thought of making good use 
of her time and escaping out of the room, as a girl 
_ brought up in a town might have done. No, she left 


he the glass and went across the room to the table where 





her work-bisket stood, and took up an- elaborate 


table-cover vhich she had been working at ina more 2) 


or leas desrtory fashion for six months past, and by 


- the time David Stevenson was shown in she was a. 
ra stitching away as if for dear life. Miss Dimsdale, on : 








































as meee him. a 
“Good evening, Did the: ae very 5 Enaty x 
«How very nice of you to come in to-night! We : 

have not seen you for a long time.” ae 
-©No, Pve been dreadfully busy,” he ‘answered, se 

and I am still, for the matter of that. But T hadn't — 
peen you for a long time, and I thought I'd come 

ever and see how you were getting on.” : 
_ “That was very good of you,’ ” gaid Miss Dimedalo; ree 
then she moved to the bell and rang it. “We will 
have a light, the evenings are olosing in very fast.” | 
« Yes,” he answered. ee 
\ i “Then he went across where already his eyes had : 
wandered to Dorothy, who was a, sewing away se 
te lies the dusk. , eo 
“How are you,. ‘Dorothy 2 he asked, 5 
Tam quite well, thank you, David,” she replied, = 
5 . Jost letting her hand rest for a moment in hia, — . 
_ “T saw you this afternoon,” he went on, seating ee 
: “Fimself on @ chair justin front ofher, = ae 
ee «Why, yea,” said Dorothy, “ ‘you took your hat oft ae 
D to me.” er 
He wasa One prow good-looking fellow, big. aad — 
ss snk and young, with the unmistakable air of a 
man who is his own master; but in Dorothy’s minda 
Vision rose up at that moment of another young man, __ 
who was also big end strong, and very unlike David ae 
 $itevenson, ac be 
- David frowned at the remembrance of the after. a 
“moon and of her companion, and just then a ‘neat i 



















“If you Roe ma’am,” said Barbara to her aie 
tress, “ Janet Benham has come up to speak to you. 
She's in great trouble about something.” ae 

Janet Benham in trouble!” cried Miss Dimsdale, i : 

; dismay. “Oh, I will come at once. Dorothy, cae : 

__ and talk to David,” she added, for Dorothy had — 

made a movement as if she, too, wanted to go and " 

har more about Janet’s trouble. - Be 
- However, in the face of her aunt's distinct com- 

‘wand, she had no choice but to remain where she 

was, and she took up the work again and began ~ 

_ a-stitching vehemently as if she would fain sew he 

wexation into the pretty pattern. | ee 

David Stevenson, on the contrary, was more ‘than ” 
well satisfied at the way in which matters had fallen, = 
end inwardly blessed that trouble of Janet Benham’s _ 
nope much as Dorothy did the contrary. He jerked — 
bis chair an inch or so nearer to hers, and leaned for- __ 

“ward with his elbows upon his knees. Dorothy sat 

‘ap very straight indeed, and Kept her attention oe 

strictly upon her work. 8 

_ “Who was that fellow I saw you falta to this, 

afternoon, Dorothy?” he asked. _ a 

- A man that Lady Jane asked to see me home,” : 

answered Dorothy, promptly. ieee 

. Qh, you had been to Lady Jane’at” in a die 

 tinotly mollified tone. | ee 

“Yea, I had been to Lady Jane's,” peuinied : 
Dorothy, matching a bit of yellow «ilk with sala 
- enre. elas didn’t you go?” : 



























. me. ” 


oe Well” I can’t help that,” anid Dorothy 
ve indifferently, | 

“TY don’t know so much about that,” he said 

ane. rather gloomily. “I think you might if you liked. 

Not that I want you to trouble about it, or that ‘e 





ae Jee ane . never pee me | now—she's taken a "dislike oe = ek 


a8 


care a single brass farthing about Lady Jane or 


her parties. In any case, I should ony go because 
ot might meet you there.” 
“Oh, that’s a poor ee reason, ee Dorothy, 
ee Hipeentl es 
There was very little of the pigte lover about 
David Stevenson, and whenever he found that 
' Dorothy was, in spite of good opportunities, sling 
_ further and further away from him, he always se 
impatient and angry. 
. « Well, I don’t know that you're far ‘wrong 
ee there,” he retorted, in a tone which he tried with 
the most indifferent success to make cool and 
 glighting,  “ However, her ladyship has left off 
fe asking me to her entertainments of late, and I don’t 
know that I feel any the worse man for that. So- 
you met that. fellow there, did you?” 
© You don’t suppose I picked him up on the oad 
do. yout” demanded Dorothy, who was getting 
angry too. 













- eourse not,” he said soothingly. “I had no right 
te ask anything about him, only everything you do — 


to know wh o he W. Sats that Was all.” 


David drew in ‘his horns a little. « ‘No, ‘no, of hes 


and. eve: yone you speak to interest me, I rented 








ie 


* 
eri” 





DAVID STEVENSON. 





eThen’ paid Dorothy, with a very donna air, : i 
_ “you had better go and ask Lady Jane herself. She — 
can tell you, and I am sure she will. I know very 


little about the gentleman—just his name and very Ve : 


little besides.” 
David Stevenson sat back in his chair with a 


- groan; Dorothy Strode stitched away furiously; and 


go they sat until Miss Dimsdale came back again. : 
_ “Hm,” her thoughts ran, “ quarrelling again.” 
Dorothy looked up at her aunt and spoke in her | 


e softest voice. ‘“ What was the matter with J anet, < 


Auntie?” she asked. | 

_ Qh, poor thing! Joe came home drunk and — 

knocked her about, and one of the neighbours, who 

- eouldn’t bear it any longer, went and fetched the 

| policeman, and Joe was marched off, to poor Janet's 

* unutterable dismay,” Miss Dimsdale replied. 

“Poor Janet!” murmured Dorothy softly. 

_  *By-the-bye, Joe Benham works for you, David, 

does he not?” Miss Dimsdale asked. et 

“Yes, he does. 

I wonder couldn t you do something? Poor Janet | 
- is in the most dreadful trouble about him.” Ms 
«Well, Pll go round and see if you like,” David | 

answered; “but Benham’s an awful brute, and will 

drink all he can get hold of to the end of the 
“ehapter. I don’t know whether you have ever 
‘noticed it, Miss Dimsdale, but somehow it seems to 
me that almost invariably the women prefer to 
‘marry the wrong men, and vice versé. Look at my — 
own mother, for instance: a sweeter creature did not 


2 live, but she was never the right wife for my father, i 


: ond dened knew it better then himself. Yes, and 
Bie @ 








court, he made the greatest mistake of nis life.” oF 


< _ what he was about, and took the one megaase: he 





that len, ee Souk Een, Gave Hall to. Dover 





ey Past Graveleigh Hall, you mean, David,” put ia c 
oe Dorothy, sharply. ‘I dare say he knew very well 


 poulld not get the other.” 
“My dears, my dears,” cried Mises Dimsdale, to 
whom all this was untold agony, “let bygones he 


__. bygones. I am sure, David, that your father was _ 





For my part, David,” she went on, severely eyeing — 





_ in love with your mother to the very end. Really, 
the young people of to-day take too much upoa 
themselves and settle the affairs of their eldersin an 

_ off-hand way which is positively indecent.” ore 

There was a sound of tears in Miss Dimsdalew 
voice which went near to betraying that this subject 
had more than a common interest for her. Dorothy 
_ recognised dimly that her aunt was pained bysoms- —__ 
thing that had been said, and never sorry to have 
an excuse for finding fault with David, she turned — 
sharply upon him. | enc 

“ Really, David,” she cried, “ a is very dishonone Pan 
able of you to come telling us what your mother — 
used to say to your father—it could never have been. 
meant for us to hear, probably not for you either, _ 

They are both dead, and their mistakes are at an 

-- end, We don’t want to know anything about them, 











the young man, who had turned a fine scarlet hue — 
at her rather pointed: remarks, “I must say that — 
I am surprised to find you are capable either of 

_ listening or of tattling about it afterwards.” 
He tried hard to ee it off as if she hed uttorea 

















: = he hetooes ‘himself | away. : i 
ae OE dear, you were a little hard on him? 









m Gtecat friend. 
“Not at all,” said Dorsihy area se “Davia 
should keep his reminiscences to himself.” poe 
“JT wish you liked David better,” said Min 

Dimedale, rather wistfully. Yo 
- «§0 do I, Auntie, for your sake,” ne 
Dorothy. “You know I do. But I don’t like hie 
‘at all: I never did—I never shall. I can’t bear hina, — : 
8 David was a man,” with withering scorn, “be 










end if 








CHAPTER Ill. 


a happened that two days later than this owt 


friend Dick Aylmer received a letter, which 
ran thus :— | 


“Your cousin,”—there was no affectionate prefix 


—‘“Mary Annandale, writes to me this morning to 


tea her engagement and approaching marriage 


_to Prince Louis Lorinoff—so there is half a million 
of money lost to the family and thrown clean out of 


the country. I sent a wire of congratulation, being 


‘too disgusted to write a letter. With you, you 
_ infernal young idiot, haven't got the patience of a 
- mouse—I hope you will live to bitterly repent it. 


_ Meantime, keep out of my way till I’ve got over ita — oS 
_ bit, and don’t expect a penny beyond your four ~ 


hundred a year, because you won't get it. And if I s 


hear of your marrying anybody under ‘a hundred 
thousand pounds, I'll cut off your allowance. After 


youre forty we can think about it, but you need 
never expect me to fall in very quickly with your 
views, a8 you have not troubled yourself to fall in 
with mine. And I think it only just to tell you that 


if I have a chance I hall marry again, in the Dope of 


yy | having an heir of my own. ie 
Lek * Yours, 


“ AYLMER,” ee 














pers ‘Dick read it and road i it again, then tossed it aside ee 
ae with a short laugh. fibers, 
_. Nice letter to have from one’s nearest relative,’ ie 
he said to himself. ‘“ He'll marry again in the hope of — re 





having an heir of his own. Aye, but her Ladyship is 


| . as tough as leather and as hard as nails, and she'll 


take good care he doesn’t have that chance, Well,” — 
with a long breath that was half a sigh and half | 
only an expression of relief, “so Mary Annandale is 
going to be the Princess Louis Lorinoff! By Jove, 


I don’t envy Monsieur le Prince! Not a bit of it—not 
even for half a million of money. And I’m to keep 
out of his way. Well, I’ll obey that command with 
all the pleasure in life. And I’m not to marry before 
Fm forty—that’s what it amounts to practically. 
~ Well, I don’t know that I mind that very much— 
@doI? Ah! well, I don’t so much know about that— 


I——” and then he stopped short and fell intoa sort 
of dream, a dream of himself walking along a country 





= road and beside him—‘“and, oh! damnation,” said 
Dick Aylmer, aloud, “what did the old brute want — 
to write to me for?” | 


He struck a match and set fire to the letter; then 


ie sudden thought occurred to him, and he crushed 
the flame out and locked the letter carefully away 
in his despatch box. “I may find that remark about 


marrying again useful,” he said to himself. “ Anys 


_way, best to keep it.” 


But though he had locked the ieee away, he 


‘could not put the thoughts of it away from him as 
easily. Indeed, it kept coming back to him again 
and again, particularly that one unpalatable sentence 
about him waiting till he was forty before he need — 








oe oa hie tesla is tees of hie manying "ander a a 
 eartain amount of dower with the bride = —its 
Now, Dick Aylmer was utterly ignorant of te 

. peiiaeiaiees in which the little girl of his dream 


was placed. She might have a dower, it might be 
_ large or small, he did not know; and on the other 
hand, it was more than likely that she had not ao 
_ much as a penny in the world. Somehow, although 


_he had never been within the precincts of Graveleigh 


Hall, he had an idea that it was a place without 


much money behind it. True, the beds in front of the 
house were gay with flowers and the house was _ 
large and of a certain appearance. But the hedges — 
which skirted the sloping meadow were none too well — 
‘kept; the entrance gates needed a coat of paint — 


: badly, and had apparently got well used to the 


“necessity; the drive was not very well kept,and __ 


altogether he fancied that Dorothy Strode’s dower _ : 


would be but a thing of small importance compared 


_ with his uncle’s idea of what Dick’s wife onent to be 


possessed of. 


Now, I may as well say here that Dick Ala had : 5 : 


made up his mind to marry the little girl of his — we 


dream. It might be sooner or it might be later, but 


he meant to do it all the same. Ifhe could gether _ 
sooner—why, he would; and if he could not get her 3 
ax soon as he wanted her—why, he would have to 


wait; but as for waiting till his savage old uncle 


chose to say “yea or nay ”-why, the idea was fo 


_ gimply preposterous, and Dick put it aside at once 
as a contingency which could not be considered for 
@ moment. After all, his marriage was his busi- 


nvas, his and nobody elee’s on his side; he meant te 


























8 to Pio himself and his uncle ooald go to 

e deuce if he liked. After all, if he did marry hur 
_ Orany other girl that he chose to marry, and his 
uncle cut up rough over it, what could he do? He 
- gould, and probably would, stop his allowance im- 
mediately. But then he had absolutely no guarantve 
that the old savage might not from mere caprive 
do that at any moment, when he would have no 
other course open to him but to exchange into a» 
regiment serving in India, and live on his pay. 
So that, after all, what was the good of his 
_ depending too much on his uncle, who would, if his 
_ wife happened to die, assuredly marry again on the 
chance of having an heir who would cut him out of 

- his heritage? 
_ All the same, Dick Aylmer did not think hat 
i Miers: was the remotest chance of his uncle's wife 
leaving the way clear for a successor—her Ladyship 
was at least fifteen years younger than her lord, and 


_ kept in perfect order by living by line and rule; and 

_ he reminded himself that beyond stopping his allow- 

ance and possibly having another heir, Lord Aylmer _ 

8 _ Was absolutely powerless to leave one stick or stone _ 
away from him, the property must go with the title 
to the heir who was to follow him. 

_A couple of days went by, and Dick Aylmer had 
Phnom forgotten his uncle’s letter in the pleasures of — 
anticipation, and by the time he turned out of the 
_ barrack gates, bound for Graveleigh Hall to make 

hi formal call upon Dorothy Strode’s aunt, he was 
mm es gay and lightsome a mood ashe had everbeen 
m in all his life. And, oh! by Jove, he reminded © 









‘was a woman of aggressively good health, which she 





himeelf he had forkbeene or “more hoeiy| he ie 
~ never known, what the old lady’s name was. Dorothy — 


had called her “ Auntie,” and he had naturally said s 


“your aunt,” and he had come away without | 
Libwie what her name and state were, whether — 
she was wife, widow, or maid. — | 

However, he did not let that trouble shim: Sas 
and he drove gaily along between the sweet wild 
hedgerows, feeling as if the soft September air, just 
tempered with a breeze off the sea, was air of ap 
Arcadian land, and such objectionable persons as — 
aristocratic relations did not exist in all the world. 
_ And then when he reached Graveleigh, the long 
_ straggling village street with its quaint old-world 
shops and its odd little post-office, he pulled up thy - 
good horse and stopped to make inquiries, “Cag — 
you tell me where Graveleigh Hall is?” he asked of 
a respectable woman. 

“Why, yes, sir—yo do go along that road and take 


. the first tarn to the right, and then yo do come to it 


she replied. 
“Ah, thanks. By-the-bye, what is the name of the 


_ Jady who lives there ?” he asked carelessly. 


“Miss Dimsdale, she do live at the Hall,” the a | 
woman replied. “And Miss Dorothy, she do live — - 
with her.” a 

“Thank you very much,” said Diok niseannties 

The good woman’ watched him as he drove along. — 
« Another of ’em after Miss Dorothy,” she said to 
herself. e 
And Dick drove gaily bile getting more ‘ead 
more light-hearted as he went; for was he not getting _ 
_ aearer and nearer with every stride of old Derbyw = 











ye BAe) Bot ba did not cet to the Hall without 


i end of the village before he met David Stevenson, 


wearing the light clothes and gaiters of a country 


gentleman who looks after his own farming, and 


_ David scowled at him murderously. Happily Dick 
- meither saw his rival nor his black looks, and 


_ drove on, flicking like a schoolboy at the hedges 


ax he passed. 

“Brute! interloper!” David growled out between 
hig strong teeth, as he stood leaning over the gate, 
’ watching the fast-retreating dog-cart. “Going 


there, of course.” 


He was strongly tempted to rush off home and 
_ ress himself and go off to the Hall after Dick, but 
kp resisted the temptation with a hopeless feeling 
_. that he would gain nothing by it, that he would 
only vex himself by the sight of the other fellow 


 philandering after the girl he had loved all his life. 


- ik She'll find him out after a bit,” he said to himself; 


' “and then she'll know how to value a man ie 


means every word—ay, and more than every word 
in that ho says.” | 
___[n the meantime Dick ae went on and turned 
- at the hospitably open gate of Graveleigh Hall, 
with the assured air of one who knew beforehand 
what his welcome would be. “Is Miss Dimsdale at 
home?” he asked of Barbara, who came to the door 
2 i answer to his knock. 
©] am not sure, sir,” Barbara answered. “But 
she may be in the garden—TI’ll find out, sir, in @ 
, minute,” : 
he disappeared again, leaving him there, and 








being further watched. Scarce was he past the o 





: ast & man ran_ shies ‘eae a side of ke: ae te oe 


ee take the horse’s head; and before Barbara appeared ao 


: _ again, Dick heard a light footstep on the gravel, and 
Dorothy herself, wearing a blue dress and a white 


sailor hat, came into sight. “Oh! Mr. Harris,” she 


-eried, in such a joyous tone that Dick’s heart fairly et 


thumped in response, “I had no idea that you were — 
here. I wonder how it was I did not hear the — 
wheels, Come and be introduced to my aunt; she 
ix here, round this shrubbery—we always sit here in 
_ the hot weather, the sight of the sea helps to keep 


ene cool, Auntie,” she continued, not giving him — 


#ome to say a word, “this is Mr, Harris, whom I met 
at Lady Jane's, who brought me home that day, you 
know ;” then turning to Dick, she Said, “ This is ay 


aes eant Misa Dimsdale.” 





“T am very pleased to see you, Mr. Harris,” said 
Miss Dimsdale, holding out her hand in a frank and 
gracious welcome. Miss Dimsdale had the somewhat 


_ etiff manners of the last generation, or I might say, — : 
of the first half of the century, but in herown house 


she was always more genial than in any other Place, | = : 


and Dick Aylmer shook hands with her and felt— 


well, that a very fate was following him in his a 
acquaintance with Dorothy Strode, for here he was a 


‘again forced, as it were, to be known as per 
when all the time his real name was Ayimer, and 


how was he to tell the old lady that some one or : i 
other had made a nistake—that is, without giving 
bimeelf the look of an impostor. Like lightning — ee 


Wiare flashed throes his mind an idea that be Li 








equal rapidity there shot through his brain a remem- — | 


_ brance of his uncle's letter, his uncle’s threats, and 
_ bis uncle’s unyielding, unbendable—yes, I must be 
honest and finish up the sentence as Dick thought 


it—his uncle's unyielding, unbendable, devil of a 
temper. And so, not from any contrivance or wish | 


of his own, Dick, in that awkward moment, let the 


mistake pass, and allowed the two ladies at Grave- 


: _ Iwigh Hall to believe that his name was, as they sis 
a osipniie Harris. 


In behaviour he was very judicious: he talked 


- aeore to the aunt than to the niece, although his 
_ @ves followed her wherever she went in a way which 
vid Miss: Dimadale all too plainly what had ease 
bm there. ‘ 








: _ Mick was sixty instead of six-and-twenty, and _ 
_ X¥imsdale was charmed with him. 





_ Iwwn with Dorothy to see her Persian kittens, just 
at that time the very pride and joy of her heart. 
Ay, but men were deceivers ever, sometimes quite 

pe ‘anconscious though it be. At that moment Dick 


was saying to Dorothy, “And I thought the week 


would never get over—the very longest week I 
a e ever lived.” 


“Then why didn’t you come before?” she igi 


oe swith innocent audacity. 

. : - Come before! But you said I wasn’t to come till 
this week,” he answered. “Besides I didn’t know— 

3 ‘wemn’s sure thet 1 mightn’t get bundled out neck 





ae But, judging by his serene and sober conversation | 
with Miss Dimsdale, you might have thought that 


“Such a thoughtful, sensible fellow,” she said ta : 
herself as she watched him presently go across the 






a8  DINNA FORGET. . 


oe 


Ss and: orop when I did come. Ob no, I didn't want 





~ to run the risk of that.” 





“Do you often get bundled but ask andl crop. e 


when you go to call at houses?” Dorothy in- 

quired demurely, and with a saucy twinkle © in 

her eye. 

“No, I don’t,” he replied, with a laugh. “But I 
have known what it was to have decided cold 
shoulder, and I didn’t want to find it here,” — 2 
“And you have not. I think Auntie has been 

particularly nice to you,” she said, as she opened the 
door leading into the stable. 

Dick put his hand out to open the door also, and 
ix doing so just touched hers, “I think,” said he,in _ 
# dangerously tender tone, which would greatly have 

- enlightened Miss Dimsdale, “ that she is a delightful — 
woman: she is fit to be your aunt;” and then 
Dorothy laughed a little, and pushed the door open. — 
“See, this is my Lorna Doone,” she said, going z 

into the nearest stall, and showing him a ball of — 

white fluff coiled up in a deep bed of hay, “Isn’tshe 
lovely ? z ae 

Dick Aylmer groaned within himself; he had fallen | 


from a paradise of tenderness to the commonplace ee 


personality of a cat—commonplace even though it os 
was a Persian cat which bore the name of Loma 7 
Doone, and she loved it. 


Tiras 4 beantfol oat withont doobl-en@ittane 


_ ita head back at the sight of Dorothy, and es 
loudly, and with evident satisfaction. 


“TI want to know just what you think of her,” -— 


- said Dorothy to Dick—* truly and honestly. Don’t 
_. flatter me about her, Lorna and I don’t like flattery 


% 








_=—we want to know the truth about ourselves—the Q x 


_ brutal trath if you will, but truth at any price. Noe 


what do you think of her?” 
“I can’t see her properly,” answered Dick. 
“Lorna, dearie, get up and show yourself off,” 
said Dorothy to the cat; then finding that the 


great white Persian did not move, she turned her _ 


out of her bed, and took the four kits into her 
own lap. 
“I think she is lovely,” said Dick. “Tan’t she an 
enormous size ?” 
“Immense,” Dorothy answered, “ aaa a great 
beauty too.” 
By this time Dick had begun to tickle Lorna 


Doone’s ear, and that lady began to respond afterthe 
manner of cats when they are not shy—that is tosay, — 
she had put her two forepaws upon his knee as he _ 
sat on the bed of hay, and was vigorously rubbing _ 


her cheeks, first one side and then the other, ee 
his hand. 
“She has taken to you,” cried Dorothy gladly. 
: “Of course she has: Lorna Doone knows a good 
thing when she sees it,” he answered, laughing. 
“Besides, why shouldn’t she take to me?” 
«Some people don’t hke wel said Dorothy ; 
“especially men.” 
_ She had not forgotten how, the very last time he 
was in the house, David Stevenson had kicked her 
favourite out of his way, not brutally or to hurt her 
- —for David, whatever his faults, was not a brute— 
but because he was so jealous of Dorothy that he 
could not endure to see her care for anything. “How 
ean you waste your love on a beast of a cat?” he had 





Me DINNA FORGET, at oe | 


a : hit out, when Dorothy had caught up Lorne an we Pisce 


held her to her cheek — 


“Some men hate ree man who comes es : 
sometimes loathes her,” she said to Dick, and Dick 


knew by a sort of instinct who the “some one” was, 


“Qh, some men are cross-grained enough for any- 
: thing,” he said good-naturedly—he could afford to 


be good-natured, for he had realised what this girle 


real feelings for “some one were.” “For my part, I 


-moust say I’ve got a liking for cat, but I should 


: | hardly class a beauty like this with ordinary cathy 
She is not only a beauty to look at, but she & 
_ evidently affectionate, padsadeane. she’s youl ee 


you know.” 


“The tea is waiting, Miss Dorothy,” wei Barbera, ’ 


appearing at the door just at that OMG 
i oe said Dorothy gently. | 


= 
~ 











RES ea ee CS PT it lee Fee a ue ran ee 
py WSO Sy , 


ae 5S ee | ie ee ty, 


- OHAPTER IY. 
SUDDEN DEATH. 


MAY come over and sce you again?” said Dick 
to Miss Dimsdale, when he took leave of her 


that afternoon. 


“Qh, yes,” she answered. She was quite con- 


_ quered by the delightful modesty of his manner. 


. “You will generally find us in about four o'clock, 


for we are very quiet people, and a few tennis-partics 


ov a dance or two are all that Dorothy sees of life. 


: _ Sometimes I wish that it was different ; but old trees, 
_ youknow,” with a smile, “are difficult to transplant,” 


_ “ And Miss Dorothy does ‘aot look as if she found 


life at Graveleigh insupportable,” said Dick, with 


- delicate flattery. 


“No; Dorothy isa good girl,” Miss Dimsdale replied 
in a tender undertone, and then she gave a little 
sigh which set Dick wondering what it could mean. 

Well, after this it very soon became an estab- 
lished custom that Dick should find his way over 
to Graveleigh at least twice in every week, and 
sometimes Mies Dimsdale asked hira to stay to share 
their dinner, for she was a woman of very hospitable 
nature, though she was quiet and somewhat stiff in 
manner, and a little old-fashioned in her ideas. And 


although David Stevenson had all her wish on his 
- ide, she really grew to like Dick the better of the two, 








e for Dick was Sate cal i kind i in a manner to. ek: 
and all alike, content to let his wooing do iteelf—if 
the truth between you and I be told, happy in the 
present, and a little inclined to leave the future to be — 


as long the future as might be because of the terrible — 


old uncle in the background. -Then, too, there was 
always present in his mind the knowledge that, 
sooner or later, he would have to make a clean breast 
of his identity, to Miss Dimsdale and to Dorothy, 
and to cast himself upon their mercy as regards the 
deception which had really been no fault of his, and 


to persuade them to consent to a secret marriage, | 


And whenever poor Dick reached this point in his 
reflections, he invariably gave a groan of utter 


despair, for he had a dreadful foreboding that never, — 
never, never would Dorothy’ aunt give even the : 


most reluctant consent to anything of the kind. 

So the sweet autumn days skipped over—Septem- 
ber died and October was born, lived its allotted . 
time, and in turn passed away, and wintry November — 
came in. The last tinted leaves fell from the trees 


~ 


of the great oaks and horse-chestnuts, and th ° ‘ali © et 


poplars which shrouded the Hall were now but — 


gaunt and shivering skeletons, only a memory of — 
their old luxuriance and glory. But to Dorothy — 
Strode the bare and leafless trees were more beauti-— 
ful than they were either in their summer gowns of 


green, or in all the many-hued loveliness of their — : 


- gutumn frocks, for to Dorothy all the world was 
lighted and beautified by the warmth and fire a 

- radiant love—better to her the leafless branches. ve 
November with love than the fairest blooms. af 
‘ springtime into which love had not yet. come, 


Titian Sek Marg} ; 





SUDDEN DEATH, al 


Duting this autumn she had seen but fittle of her 


es + admirer, David Stevenson. He had gone to the 
- Hall once or twice after he knew that “the man. 


_ from Colchester” had become a frequent visitor there 
_=-gone with a savage assertion of his rights as an 
old friend and a lifelong intimate of the house. But 


whon he found that Miss Dimsdale had, as he put it, 
_ “gone over to the enemy,” he gave up even that 


much intercourse, and gave all his energies to his 
farming, content, as he told himself, to bide his 


- d time, 


At last about the middle of November, when half 


a - the officers of the regiment were on leave, and soldier- 
ing and Colchester alike were as flat and dull as ditch- 
water, Dick Aylmer got into his dog-cart and turned 


the horse’s head towards the big gates, 


: Hullo, Dick!” called out a brother- officer to ae 
_ where are you going ?” | 


- “Qh, a drive,” returned Dick promptly. 


: - “Qh, a drive,” repeated the other, noting the 
evasion instantly—trust a soldier for that. “Got any 
| som for a fellow?” | 


“Take you as far as the town if you like,” said 


Dick good-naturedly. 


“No, never mind,” answered the other. “ I'll walk 


eS ae with Snooks presently.” 


- “Didn’t want a lift, you know,” he explained to 
Snooks, who in polite society was known as Lord 


William Very], “but I did want to find out where 


old Dick was going. But Dick was ready for me, 
and as close as wax.” | 
“Yes, I know—tried it on myself with him the 
__ other day,” said Snooks reflectively. “ Dick informed 


2 


Cea 





Le INNA FORGET. 


me he was making a careful study oe mare 'o-nests for 

the benefit of the British Association.” (an 
«The devil take those fellows,” Dick was saying to 

himself at that moment, as he drove along. “They 





have either got a clue, or they’ve turned suspicious. 


Snooks the other day, and Laurence now. I shall 
have to make up my mind, to screw things up to a 
climax.” 

But he had not now much fear that the climax 


would be a disagreeable one for him; and he drove 


along over the muddy roads as gaily ais ever he had _ 


done between the sweet September hedgerows. 
Yet when he drew up in front of the Hall, it struck 
him that there was something strange about the 
place. For one thing, the usually neat and well-kept 
gravel was cut up, and in one place the low box- — 
hedge which skirted the now empty flower-beds waa 
cut and crashed as if a careless driver ot cele: 
over it. ! 
He was not ke left in doubt. Old Adam came 
to take his horse and led him off to the stable, shake — 
ing his head with ominous sadness, and muttering 
something indistinctly about a bad job; and then 


Barbara opened the door with a scared white face, 


and quivering lips which could not command them~ : 
selves sufficiently to tell him anything. an 

“Good. God, what is it?” exclaimed Diok, his a 
thoughts flying straight way to Dorothy. 

But it was not Dorothy, for in two minutes she 
came running into the room, tried to speak, and 
then scared and trembling and sobbing, she found © 
herself somehow or other in his arms. - 


Diok was almost beside. himself with anxiety, -_ 








SUDDEN DEATH. 


he soothed her tenderly, and patted her shoulder 
with a gentle “There, there, darling, don’t ory like 
that. What is it, dear? Tell me.” 

But for a little time Dorothy simply could not tell 
him. “Tve been longing for you to come,” she said. 
at last. “Such an awful night we have had. Oh, 
poor Auntie! and she is all I have in the world—in 
the world.” 

“But is she ill?” asked he. “Remember that I 
know nothing.” | 
_ “But you got my telegram,” she said, ceasing her 
sobs to look at him. - | 

“Your telegram, no! What telegram ? , ie 

“T sent one early this morning to you at 


Colchester,” she answered—“‘To R. Harris, 40th — 


‘Dragoons, Colchester. Was not that direction 
enough? ” : 4 
Well, scarcely,” said Dick, half smiling at his own 
knowledge. “ But about your aunt—is she ill?” 
_Dorothy’s tears broke out afresh. “ She is dying — 
—dying,” she sobbed. “The doctor says that there 
is no hope—no hope whatever,” , 

“But tell me all about it,” he urged. “ What i ig 
the ‘matter with her? She was all right yesterday 
afternoon when I left. It must have been very 
_udden. Was it a iit?” 

“ Paralysis,” answered Dorothy mournfully. ‘ We 
were just going to bed, and Auntie got up, and all 
at once she said, ‘I feel so strange, Dorothy; fetch 
Barbara,’ and when'I came back a minute afterwards 
she had slipped down on to the floor by the sofa 
there, and could hardly speak. We put a pillow 
‘ander her head, and got Adam up, and Adam drove 


44 so pINNA FORGET. : 


‘into Vovercourt and brought the ‘doctor out. as tot 
as he could, but Auntie did not know him at all. 


And as soon as he came in, Barbara and 1 knew it 
was all over with her, for he shook his head, and 
said, ‘We had better get her into bed. Oh no, it won't 
disturb her, she feels nothing’ But she did feel 


something,” Dorothy added, “for when we were 


undressing her she spoke several times, and always 
the same, ‘My poor little girl—Dorothy—all alone,’ ” 


_ and here, poor child, she broke down again, sobbing 


over her own desolation. “I begged and prayed 

her not to worry about me, but it was no good. Dr. 

Stanley said she couldn’t hear me, and so she kept 
on all night, ‘My poor little girl—all alone.’” : 


For some minutes Dick never said @ word 


de Dorothy, ” he said at last, “I should like to see her. 
Where is she?” “s 


“ In her own bed,” said Dorothy seep 


“Then take me up there. Perhaps she will under. 


stand me if I tell her something. & 
So Dorothy took him up to the large deka 


room where the mistress of the house lay dying. — 
Barbara, filled with grief and dismay, sat keeping — 
watch beside her, and she stared with surprise to see 


Dorothy come in, followed by the tall soldier, who 
entered with a soft tread and went up to the bed, 


where he stood for ‘a moment watching the dying __ 
woman, and listening to the incoherent mumbling _ 
words that fell from a lips. “ Dorothy—little girl— 

no one—alone—ah !—” and then along sigh, enough 


to break their hearts that heard it. 
“Just pull up that blind for a minute, Barbara,” 


: eaid Dick to the weeping woman, “TJ want to speak 





BE ANF AR ARIOE A vel BOS ab hich | 
3 ! ne at an Meg pit pats 





oe SUDDEN DEATH, e a ru | 
: = to your mistress, and I can’t tell whether she will 


| ‘inderstand me tnlésa I can see her face.” 





Then as Barbara drew up the blind and let the 
_ feeble November daylight in upon the pallid face 

_ lying so stiffly among the pillows, he laid his hand : 
upon the nerveless one lying upon the bed-cover. 
_ “Miss Dimsdale,” he said, “do you know me?” be 
But there was no sign, and he tried again. 

“ Miss Dimsdale, don’t you know me, Dick Harris?” 

For a moment there was a death-like silence, then — 
_ the dying woman muttered, “ Dorothy—girl—alone.” 

“You are troubling about Dorothy,” said Dick, 
slowly and clearly, “and I have something to tell 


a you about Dorothy. Can you hear me? Cannot you. 


_ make me some sign that you hearme? Can you 
_ move your hand?” 

But no, the hand remained poset still, still and 
cold, as if it were dead already. 

“Can you make me no sign that you hear me?” 
Dick urged, “I must tell you this about Dorothy. It 
will make you quite easy in your mind about her.” _ 

Still she did not move or speak, but after a moment 
or so her eyes slowly opened and she looked at him. 
“1 see that you hear me and know me,” said Dick. 
« You are troubling to know what will happen te 
ey if you should die in this illness. Is that it?” . 
“Yes.” She had managed to speak intelligibly: 
st last, and Dick pressed the cold, nerveleas hand 
still covered by his own. 
“Twat to marry Dorothy at once,” he said very 
clearly wud gently. “I should have usked you for 
her covn in any case. But you will ke quite satisfied 
to koow that she is safe with me, won't you?” 





46 DINNA FORGET. 
There was another silence; then the poor tied 
tongue tried to speak, tried again, and at last 
mumbled something which the three listeners knew 
was, “ Bless you.” : | 
“ Auntie, Auntie,” sobbed Dorothy, in an agony, 
“gay one word to me—to me and poor cating’ 
do. 99 
_ The dying eyes turned towards the faithful servant, 
and a flickering smile a across the worn grey 
face. 
“Old friends, ” she said more clearly thats she had 
_ yet spoken. “Very happy,” and the eyes turned 
towards Dick. 
“Auntie!” cried Dorothy. 
: “My little girl,” said the dying wor.an, almost 
clearly now. “My dear, good child. I am quite 


happy.” 


There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the 
girl’s wild sobs, and when Dick looked up again, the _ 
grey shadows had fallen again over the worn face, 
and he knew that her mind was at rest now. 3 
_ And in the quiet watches of that night Marion 
Dimedale passed quietly away, just as tha tide turned — 
backward to the hams geet ong Bee. 








* 


CHAPTER V. 
DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, 


ICK stayed at Graveleigh Hall until the end 
came, after which he bade Dorothy go to bed ; 
and he put his horse in and drove back to Colchester, 
which he reached in time for the day’ 8 duty, pace 
orderly-officer for the day. 
“I must stay in barracks all tomar w, darling, 
I am on duty,” he explained to her; “but I'll get 
leave the next day, and come out here ha the morning. 
Meantime, will you and Barbara say nothing of the 
engagement between us—L want to have a long talk 
to you before any one else knows a single word.” 
And Dorothy, of course, promised, and Barbara 
promised too, believing quite that Mr. Harris wished 
to Bay nothing about marrying and giving in 
marriage while the dear mistress of the house lay 
cold and still within it. 
It was a sad and wretched day. The news spread 
quickly through the neighbourhood, and every few 


minutes inquirers came to the door to hear the — 


details from Barbara and ask kindly for Dorothy. 
And about noon, by the time Dorothy had dragged 
herself out of bed and was sitting miserably beside 
the drawing-room fire, David Stevenson rode along 
the avenue and told Barbara that he wanted to see 
Mies Dorothy. 


Pod 


Tig ah SON hae er A Lk A Sie wet See Ee Bet ee TN RAY egy A) RATS, MaRS 5 Sea RY We LN 
DENG ERT aR SCAR UREN SSeS NN EL USE eT EERE MUP imeetavare EOIN ieee aes SRG ABO sae ee RS ieee 
Pee Beat er Ao a MSS Nina nats: Gta oe Disases Vase abashic we we ly Tee eke ay Ow aero, ath Mons N79 






; 48 oan DINNA FORGET. 


« Miss Dorothy i is yery paar, and ‘ox os . enid 
Barbara, who. had a sort of instinct that Dorothy 


would rather not see this particular visitor. 


“ Yes, but I must see her, all the eame,” said David, 
ourtly. “Where is she?” 

_ “Tn the drawing-room, sir,” said Barbara; “ But I 
don’t think I oan let you go in without asking Miss 
Dorothy—I 

“Do you know,” asked David, with exasperating 





calmness, “that I am Miss Dimsdale’s sole executor ? 
No, I thought not. Then you will understand. now, 


periios, that it is necessary that. I should see her— 


to find out her wishes with regard to the funeral for 
one thing, and to give her authority to have her 
black frocks made for another;” and then, poor 


Barbara having shrunk away scared and trembling 
from this new and strange David Stevenson, whom 


she did not seem to know at all, he went straight to 
the drawing-room, going in and ee the door 


behind him. 
‘Dorothy jumped up with a cry almost of Tie : 
when she saw who had thus entered. “There,” 


- gaid he coldly, motioning her back to |her chair, 


«don’t be afraid, I shall not hurt, you,” and then he 
got himself a chair and set it a vile wee from 
hers. : 

“TT was obliged te come and see you at once, 
Dorothy,” he said, in a, cold and formal way, “because 
your poor aunt made we the sole executor under her 
will. But first let ma say how very, very sorry I am 


that I have to come like this. JI have known Miss 


Dimsdale all my life, and loved her always.” | 
Dorothy had softened a little at ne and before bes 





RCE Ee Rah LT NT A ne LAN OR egy at anne ee er ante GN ea a 


DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, | 49 s 


had onded his sentence, began to cry piteously. : 
David Stevenson went on— ~~ 

“1 don’t want to speak about the reason wit she 
left me in charge of everything,” he said—“ at least, 
not just now. Of course, she thought that everything 
would be very different with us. And then, too, she 





@vas a good deal mixed up with me in business — 


matters, and I believe she wished that the outside. 
world should know as little of her affairs as possible. 
Now, Dorothy, it shall be as you wish: I will either 
simply hear your wishes about the funeral and the 
mourning and all that, and tell yca how your affairs 
_ &tand by-and by, or I will tell you now, whichever 
“you like,” 
JT would rather kitow the worst now,” said 
Dorothy, in a very low voice. She knew from his 
manner that he had no comforting news to tell her. 
“Then I will tell you,” said he, in a strained tone; 
“and first I must ask you, did Miss Dimsdale ever 
tell you that she had had great losses during the 
past two years?” 
_ Losses!” cried Dorothy, le open eyes. es No; ‘qT 
don’t know what you mean.” 
«J feared not. Well, sho had Navara terrible 

losses of money. and—and, to cut a long story short, 
Dorothy, I advanced her seygral large sums on—on 

the security of this property.” 

“Then this—go on,” said Dorothy. 

“At that time Miss Dimsdale and I both thoupttt 

that everything would be different between you and 
me, and, in fact, that 1 was but advancing money 
to you. We thought that the world—our little world 
_ here, I mean—would never know anything about it, 





80 ——~™:*sCO ENA FORGE, 


and she was obliged to sell the Hall to somebody. 
I gave her more for it, than anybody else in the world 
would have done, because—well, because I wished — 
to oblige her, and to help her over this difficulty. 
On no account would I have disturbed her here, or 
have taken a ats of rent from her, if she had 


we 


lived to be ninety.” © ~ 

“Then this is your house ?” Dorothy cried. 

“Tt is,” he answered quietly, 

“But Auntie had a very large annuity.” she 
exclaimed. : 

“I know it. But then you must remember that 
she had always been accustomed to live up to her 
_ full income—to keep her carriage and pair, her 
gardener and her maids. Indeed, Miss Dimsdale 
never had any money to spare, and it was in the 
: hope of making more of the loose money that she 
had, money that was’ apart from her estate and 
cher settled annuity, that she unfortunately bought, 
among other things, two shares in a bank which was 
not safe, which, indeed, failed and left her liable for 
nearly as much money as the Hall and the age 
were worth.” 

“Then was my aunt a pensioner on your bounty ” 
Dorothy cried, her face all aflame at the idea, 

“Certainly not,” with a bitter smile at the pride 
on the soft little face.. “Iwas not to take possession 
until her death, and she had always her annuity; but 
after that loss she never lived in the same comfort 
quite as she had done before.”. 

“T never noticed it,” Dorothy put in. 

“ Perhaps not. She was most anxious that you 
should not do 80," 





DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, eh 


“Then this is your house!” said Dorothy, tising, © 
. “Stay, let me speak. I will not keep you out of 
your rights. The day after she”—her voice trem- 
bling—“is taken away, I, too, will go,” and then she 
| turned away, to hide alike her anger and her tears. 
David Stevenson rose also, his face hard and set in 
_ response to the bitterness of the girl’s tones, his handa 
trembling, and his heart as heavy as lead. A sharp 
reply ros9 to his tongue, but it went no further, for 
all at once the sight of Dorothy’s a touched and 
softened him. 

“Dorothy ! Dorothy!” he said, * what’ can I ever 
have said or done to you that you should treat me 
like this? I have loved you all my life, just as I 
love you now, but there is no crime in that, surely? - 
By writing and asking you to be my wife, I certainly 
never meant to insult you, and yet you seem to think 
I have done you some deadly wrong to offer you what 
most men consider the highest compliment they can 
pay toany woman. The idea of you talking of my 
rights here, when your aunt is still lying in the 


house, is too cruel, too unkind. I am not an inter- — 


_loper, who cheated my friend out of her dues; on 
the contrary, I saved her from all the unpleasantness 


and the expense of exposure. She never looked © : 


upon me as you do now. I don’t think, Dorothy,” he 
ended pe ooeny, “that I have deserved this 
from you.” 

Dorothy had hidden her face upon the shiney: 


- Shelf «1 am very miserable,” she said, in choking 


voice. “I’m very sorry.” 
David Stevenson drew his own conclusions from 
the admission; then after a minute or two of silence, 





_ 52 met . a DINNA yorarn, 
he caid, Ms ‘There i is one thing: I should like to tet 


you before I go, 
“Yes,” very meekly. a 
“It is—don't think I am trying to force stivualies on 

you when you are in trouble, for it is because you 





are alone and in trouble that I must tell you. Itia — 


that I think now about you as I always have thought, 


_ and asI believe I always shall think. AndI want you 


to remember, Dorothy, that if ever you feel any 
differently towards me than you have done lately, - 
_ you have only to send a line and say, ‘ David, I want 
you. Or if you choose to go away into the world 
altogether, to marry, to do anything, you know that, 


whatever happens, one pair of arms will always be 





open for you, one lover always ready to call you 
mistress, one man always ready to lie down under 
your feet. That was what I came to say to-day.” 
_ There was a death-like silence. Dorothy struggled 
to speak, but could not. Then she put out her hand 
‘in a blind sort of way towards eh, and David bent | 
down and kissed it, 
Neither of them said a word more, and fix a 
‘moment or so he released her hand, and went out 
of the room, knowing as surely as if she had said it in 


_ plain words, that Dorothy Strode had given her heart _ 
away, and that she would never send for him in this — 


world ; that it was all over, and at an end between _ 
them for ever. # 
So he went home to his own handsome, lonely 

| house, and looked round as a condemned man may 
look around the cell which is to be his while life 
lasts. He was quietly and utterly miserable, for 
-watil a few months ago Dorothy had been the life 


— 





DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION. 53 


provement in his house, it had been for Dorothy, 
he had planted a shrub or a young tree, it had been 


: . mainspring of his life, If he had made any 


- for Dorothy. He had bought a smart little village — 


cart, thinking that it was just what Dorothy would 


like to drive herself about the lanes in—but it had 


all been for nothing; and in that. bitter hour of 
realisation he knew that he would live out his life 
alone, and that Dorothy Strode would never come, 


except in dreams, vain, hopeless dreams, to be the 
mistress of Holroyd. : 


A couple of hours passed before he remembered 


_ that he had never mentioned the subject of Miss 


e Dimedale’s funeral to Dorothy, or actually told 
her in what precise oe teleg ae: she had been 


“J have lost my head over all this business,” he 


paid, with a grim laugh to himself; “and she, poor 
little girl, is probably worrying herself to know 


whether she can afford to buy — a black gown. 


I must send her a line down at once.” | 
- Dorothy therefore, in something less than an hour's 


be time, aren the ees note :— 


«My DEAR Donorzy,—I quite forgot this morning 
to mention several matters of: importance just now. 
First, to tell you that when everything is settled, 
there will be at least a thousand pounds for you. 
Your aunt has left you everything. Therefore I~ 


~ Rave sent into Colchester for Mawson to come out 
and see you about the funeral, which will be, of | 


oourse, in every respect as you wish to have it. May 


- ; I ee to you that you shal! carry out Miss Dims- - . 








Pe et Oe een De ten tee 


a 54 : eee DINNA FORGET, 


dale’s often-expressed views on this eubieiv-tpliin 
and good and without ostentation? With regard te 
your mourning, it will be best for you to employ your 
_ regular dress people. I am obliged to mention this, 
as, not being of age, you cannot legally pay for 
necessary bills. After next month you will be the 
absolute mistress of whatever the property will 
- realise. | 
“ Always “tes true friend, 
| “ DAVID.” 
This Dorothy roe d soon after four in the after- 

‘noon, just as Barbara had lighted the lamps in the | 
drawing-room and drawn the crimson curtains oie 


~ over the windows. 


“There is a letter, Miss Dorothy dear? she said, 
glad of anything that would help to break the 
loneliness and monotony of that awful day, “and 
while you read it Pll go and see if your cup of tea 
‘isn’t ready: you have had nothing this day, and a 
cup of tea anda bit of hot buttered toast ’ll be better 
: than nothing for you.” | 

“Thanks, Barbara,” said Dorothy, listlessly. 

Poor child! she cried a little over the note, because 
its subject brought back the remembrance of her 
‘sorrow again, but her tears did not last long ; indeed, 
she had wept so violently during most of the day 
that her tears seemed to be almost exhausted now, 

And then she put it back on the little table at her 
elbow. “Poor Davidi” she said softly, “it istoo bad — 
for him. I wish I could have liked him: Auntie 
wished it too. Dear Auntie! But I can’t, I can’t, 
and Auntie liked Dick best afterwards. It made 
her so peaceful and happy to know that I wes geing 





acids ereypis Oa Muh nese a) rk ea Ate Mia Rs Liu aa ie 9 4 St 


ms 


, 


DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, : 55 om 





.. to be Dick’s wife—-that Dick was going to take care 
_ of me always, And yet poor David. Oh! I wish 
he would marry some one else. Elsie Carrington 
_ likes him so much—Elsie always thought David was 
. perfect. I wonder when I am safely out of the way 
and married to Dick, whether David could be 
_ brought to think of Elsie a little. It would be such 

a good thing for her, and she is pretty and good and 
oh! so fond of him. I wonder if I were to give 
David just a little hint, just a suspicion of a hint 
that Elsie has always liked him. If he wouldn’t— 
why, Elsie would never know that I had said any- 
thing, and then if he knew he might soon get to like 
her better than me, I am sure if Dick had not cared 
for me as he does, and had married somebody else, 
I would marry David at once, and Auntie would be 

_ glad too, if she knew. David used to be her favourite, 
and she always liked Elsie, always.” _ 

“ Now, my dear,” said Barbara, coming in, “ here 
is a nice cup of tea and a plate of toast. Try to est 
jt, my dear; it will help you to bear it.” re 

“Yes, Barbara,” eaid Dorothy, her eyes Sling with 





CHAPTER VI. 


BARBARA’S SANOTION. ‘ 


HE following morning Dick Aylmer made nia 

appearance at the Hall quite oaly- “ How have 

you been getting on, my darling?” he said, when : 
Dorothy fairly ran into his arms. 

“Qh! it was such a miserable day yester diny,” she 
answered mournfully. “I sat here alone all day © 
crying and thinking about Auntie, except when 

“Yes. When?” 

_ “When David Stevenson came to see me.” 
- Dick could not help frowning a little. “ David 
Stevenson. Why didhecome?” | | 
- Well, because he is Auntie’s executor—he has to 
do everything; and oh! Dick, everything belongs 
to him now—the very house is his.” 
“His, this house! Why, what do you mean ?” 
“J will tell you,” she said. “You know; but no, 
of course you don’t know, but I will tell you. You 
see, Auntie had this house and all the farm and go on, 
and also an annuity of eight hundred a year, which 
was bought for her by a very queer old aunt of hers, 
Well, David told me yesterday that Auntie had also 
_ what he called some loose money, and with this she 
speculated a little. and did pretty well with it. I 
dare say she was thinking of me, poor darling, Well, 


two years ago.a bank in which she had a couple of 








. ae ee - BARBARA'S BANOTION, BF 


- shares failed, and she had to pay up a great deal 
more money than she had, so she sold the Hall to 
| David, for they both thought then that I should end 
by marrying him, and they thought nobody would 
ever know anything about it. David says he gave 
her much more than any one else would have done, 
-and that she was never to be disturbed while she 
lived. But it is all David’s now, and he says that 
there will be only about a thousand pounds for me 
when everything is settled. But I never knew a 
— word till yesterday.” 
_ “And the fellow came and told all this!” cried 
‘Dick, in disgust. “Why, ’?pon my word, it isn’t 
decent. Can’t he even let the Taiser ees be carried 
out of the house before he claims it?’ 
“No, Dick, it wasn’t like that,” Dorothy protested 
meekly, anxious to do even David justice. “But, 
you see, he is executor and nobody can do anything 
without him. So he was obliged to tell me that, and . 
then I insisted on hearing everything else.” 
3 “Qh, I see,” somewhat mollified. Beats you 
_ didn’t tell him anything about me?” , 
“We never mentioned you, Dick,” she wing abd 
quickly. 
. He did not speak for a minute, but sat holding o1 one 
_ of her hands in his, and tugging at his moustache 
with tho other. “Darling,” he burst out at last, 
“Pve got such a lot to tell you, and a good deal to 
confess to you, that I don’t know where to begin. — 
But you will hear all I’ve got to eay—you won't be 
_ frightened or angry, will you?” 
_ “Dick,” she said, beginning to coumnigg ‘you are 
pot going to throw me over?” 
BR 





_ & “pINNA FORGET. 


«'Throw you over!” he repeated, half A 
“My dear, I worship the very ground you tread on, 
Throw you over! no, more likely you will be the one 
to do that.” ie ue 

“You frighten me,” she cried, trembling still, 
“And I am so alone now. I used to have Auntie. 
I could have borne anything then, but now I feel’ 
like a poor pile rudderless boat going out to an 
unknown sea.’ 

“Not rudderless while I live,” he replied tenderly. 

“Well, Dorothy, my darling, I may as well make 
a clean breast of the worst at once and get it over. 
Don’t be frightened, dear, but my name is not Harria 
at all.” 

“ Dick!” she cried, then sat staring at big as if 
she could not believe her own ears, “Dick!” 

Yes, know. But wait till you hear all, dear, 
and then you will see that it was not my fault, to 
begin with, oat that I never meant really to deceive 
either of you.” 

And then he told her Se etal Lady Jane 
suet have mistaken him for his friend Haines; how 
unconscious he had been that the mistake had been 
made until she—Dorothy, that is—had called him 
Mr. Harris; how that fellow Stevenson had passed 
just as she spoke, and he had forgotten until he got 
back to Lady Jane's nearly that he had parted from 
her leaving her under a wrong impression about him; 
how oddly enough almost the same thing had happened 
at Lady Jane's. Then he told her all about his uncle’s — 
letter—gave it to her to read, in fact—and told her — 
how he had come to call on Miss Dimsdale, and had 

been prevented from giving his real name to Barbara by 





BARBARA'S SANOTION. : 69 


Dorothy’ 8 coming to meet him and introducing him 
to her aunt as “Mr. Harris,” and finally, how he had 
‘let the mistake pass, feeling that the whole situation. 
was & very awkward one for him, but having 
_slways the full intention of making a clean breast — 
of it to Miss Dimsdale sooner or later. “And the 
fact was,” he ended half apologetically, “I thought — 
if you both got to like me you wouldn’t care whether 
my name was ‘l’om, Dick, or Harry.” 

“But it is Dick ?” she cried quite piteously. 


It is Dick—Dick Aylmer, at my darling’s service,” 


he answered; “and, after all, Aylmer is a better name 
than Harris, any day.” 3 
“And you will be Lord ‘Ayimen one day!” she 
said, her soft eyes filled with wonder to think of it. 
“ Yes, always supposing the old savage does not 
contrive to carry his threat about an heir of his 


~ own into actual fact,” Dick replied. ‘But then you 


won't like me any the less for that, I hope.” 
“Oh no I was not thinking of that,” she said. 


“T was only thinking how wonderful it was that 


youshould want to marry me. But, Dick, what will 


"your uncle say when he finds out about it?” 


“He will out off my allowance promptly,” Dick 
~ answered. 

“Qh, Dick!” she said. 

“Well, now, my darling, that is what I want to 
talk to you about. You see nobody about here, not 
even Lady Jane, knows me, except as Harris, 


gegiment vague. And if the old savage finds out 


that I am married he will make it a necessity for me — 


~ to go to India, which I don’t want to do if I can help 
“it, But if you would consent to marry me privately 





ao safe so ie as you were not known by: any 
of the people in my regiment—that i ig, if Fen: ne, a 
mile or two away, or in the next town.” - _ 

“It would be quite legal?” said pis Pep & 
trembling voice, 
“It would be perfectly legal,” he ste eeee 
“Qh! my dear,” he burst out, “do you think I 
would be such a villain as to make a suggestion 
- which would not be legal, while your aunt who 
took care of you all your life, and who left you in 
-my charge, lay dead in the house? Listen, [ have 
thought it all out. We will be married, if you consent, 
as soon as we possibly can be. Barbara will witness 
the marriage, but will not know my real name I 
will at once make a deed declaring that I was married 
on such a day under the name of Harris, and leave it 
sealed in some place of safety, so that there can 
_ never be any trouble about the identification of the 
Richard Harris who was married to Dorothy Strode. 
We will tell Barbara that it is necessary the mar- 
riage should be kept secret for a time, and she 
‘will live with you and take care of you when I am 
absent. There, that is my idea. I know that it isa 
_ great sacrifice to ask of you, and I hardly like to ask 
it, but you see I am in this old savage’s hands, so te 
speak. Then, on the cther hand, if you don’t feel 
that you ought to do this, or that your aunt would 
have objected very strongly to it, I will write at 
_once and tell Lord Aylmer what I have done, and he | 
must make himself as disagreeable as he leet 
Only, my dearest, that will mean India.” __ 
“Dick© dear,” said Dorothy, slipping her hand 


t 





BARBARA’S SANOTION, gh 


| within his, we will be married privately. I don’t 


think Auntie would have minded a bit. If she knew 
 @ thing was right, she never cared what the world 


had to say about it.” 
- And so it was settled. When Dick had gone 


_ gain, Dorothy rang the bell for Barbara. “Come in | 


__ here, Barbara,” she said, “I have something to tell 

— you, Listen—sit down, Barbara, and promise me 
that what I tell you shall be a dead seoret for ever 

~ urfil I release you from your promise.” 

Miss Dorothy,” said Barbara, sniffing, “I promise, 


. but surely you know it isn’t necessary.” 
_ No, Barbara, no,” soothingly, “ but it is best to 


say all at first, isn’t it? First, do you know that this 


house all belongs to Mr. David Stevenson ?” 


“To David Stevenson!” burst out Barbara, indig- : 


re nantly (she had known David from a little boy and 


detested him always). “But, Miss Dorothy, surely the 
dear mistress never let him get round her to that 
extent?” 

 &No, no,” cried Dorothy, “but Auntie had to sell 
the Hall to somebody, and she sold it to David, and I 


ge never knew till he told me yesterday.” 


«Then I think, Miss Dorothy,” cried Barbara, in 
dignified disgust, “that he might have had the 
ecancy to wait a day or two before he told 


fest Barbara, you are ‘too hard on Davide He 
has been very kind and considerate to me—most 
kind and considerate indeed. But he just had to 
tell me, he couldn’t very well help himself. Of 
 geurse, he does not want to turn us out—he—he 
_ woubdn’t mind if we stopped here for years; but then, 





a _ DINNA FORGET. = 


you see, Barbars, Tam engaged to Mr. Hara: and—_— 


and this is no place for me.’ 

“Does Mr. David know ?” Barbara eau: 

“Not yet; and that is what I wanted to tell you. 
- You see, Barbara, Mr. Harris is very awkward]: 
placed. - He has a relation who insists that he does 
not get married because he would not marry some 
rich girl or other that they wanted him to marry. 
And, of course, he wants to marry me, and he 
means to.” 


« Yes?” said Barbara, intensely interested in this 


sery romantic situation. “ Yes, Miss Dorothy, well?” 
“Well, Barbara dear, we are going to be married 
quietly,” said Dorothy, edging her chair a trifle nearer 
to the elderly woman’s chair, “‘ without letting any- 
body know, do you see?” 
“Without any of the folk round about knowing?” 
Barbara asked. 


“Just so, It won't be for always, you know, 


Barbara—only until Dick comes into his property; 
and he hasn’t asked me to do anything but exactly 
what he had made up his mind to explain to Auntie, 
and ask her to give her consent to. And I feel sure 
she would have done so, dear Auntie, for she did get 
so fond of Dick.” 

“Yes, she did,” Baers agreed. “But, Miss 
Dorothy, you are sure it will be done properly—that 
you'll be niarried in church and have your lines and 
all‘that? ” | 


“You are to see me married, Barbara,” Poroty. 


answered simply ; “Mr. Harris says so,” 


And after that Barbara gave her consent, so te : 


speak, and promised to be true to her trust and 


mig WTS MRE OT Pisce een 5 SRT URES EN YTS ee AC Ie SF Ap TOL Ot eos ie ake A RSENS RNR Kes eee Me Se A epee 7 ee Read te cha Fy Se ip ste Wade 
4 Symes = mE ies Pa Nevis ety ie, pO, We eto lee mitts mea yea Cate meet. F 
TSS S 4 sae \ : : ¥ 45 , Sm Peeve 8 
mas \ Ras r f SES Pes 
« 


7) Pd el 






~~ ‘BARBARA'S SANCTION, 68 


as stand by her.dear Miss Dorothy as long as she lived. — 

_ “YT think the dear mistress would be glad if she 

knew, Miss Dorothy.” 

_ She did know, Barbara,” said Dorothy, with a 
tender smile shining through her tears, 


So the two sat together for a long time, talking 
long, and now and then weeping as some word 
brought back the memory of their loss. And 
Dorothy told the faithful servant all the plans that 
Dick and she had made for the strange and almost 
unknown future, which seemed so terrible to her 
who had lived all her life—all that she could remem- 


per, at least—under the same roof and guarded by 


the same tender care. 


sudden, so strange and new; everything is going. 
from me at one stroke, and after we go away from 
Graveleigh I shall have nothing but you to remind - 





_ It was so sad to have go little joy in her engage- 
ment and her coming marriage, and yet—yet, ‘‘ You 
mustn’t think that I don’t love Dick,” she cried to 
Barbara, when she had had another passionate burst 
of grief over the dead woman lying above. “I do 
love him with all my heart, and I know that I shall 
be quite, quite happy by-and-bye. But it is all so 


me of the past at all. Why, I don't know. I 
am not at all sure that everything here does not 


‘belong to David. Perhaps he can even take 
my Lorna Doone away and—and even drown 


her.” 
“Nay, nay, Mr. David won't want to do that,” 


‘returned Barbara, soothingly. “Besides, Lorna never 
did belong to the mistress. Her ladyship gave her 


POLE SERRE 


_to you—the dens HERO had naught to do in the — 





Fe Se ot cae Bia te fo ee On er ee CEO Re ah ae On ene 
¥ * BS er ai a et Se eae Dera if aan eae 


ee “pnnwa yoRaEr. 


matter. Then, Miss Dorothy deat; arec't you going : 


to tell ker ladyehip about it?” 


“Lady Jane last of anybody,” cried Dorothy —4last ee 


of pay body. 


“JT see,” said Barbara, with an air of wisdom; bus, ie 
all the same, Barbara did not see anything. She 


thought the whole arrangement very strange and 
unusual, and she remindéd herself that she had 
never been mixed up with anything of the kind in 
all her life before, and now that she was being drawn 
into something distinctly clandestine, she did not at 


ell like it, Still, on the other hand, there was only 


the prospect of remaining at Graveleigh Hall under 
David Stevenson, and Barbara cordially detested 
David as she had always done. So, between her 
dislike of David Stevenson and Dorothy’s promise 
and Mr. Harris’s wich that she should see the marriage 


take place, Barbara graciously gave her sanction to 


the private union, and did not try to place any 
obstacles in the young folks’ way. 





ar 
«“ 


Ween bis Sate 
& 


Oi Se Mia re OF gS y 
cas aR 





CHAPTER VII. 
THE DAYS THAT ARE HO MORE. 


ISS DIMSDALE was laid away in Graveleigh 

: M Churchyard three days later. Everyone, high, 
low, rich, and poor, for several miles around the Hall 
came to pay the last token of affection and respect 
to her, and bitter were the tears that fell that day 
for the just and kind friend who was gone, 

Naturally a good deal of curiosity was felt about. 
Dorothy’s future, and many were the speculations ag 


to whether she would remain at the Hall alone with 


Miss Barbara. »r whether she would eventually 
decide to go to Holroyd, or to take the good-looking 
officer who had been so frequent a visitor at. the 


_- Hall for three months past. 


_ With regard to Dick, there was almost a quarrel, 
: iy Dorothy, as a matter of course, had invited him 
te the funeral, as indeed she had asked all her aunt's 
- friends who would be likely to attend it. 

Now, Dorothy had not a relation in the world, 
excepting one cousin, at that time wintering in 


_. Egypt, and therefore unable to attend the ceremony. 


She did not enter the large drawing-room until the 
_ Jast moment before starting, and then only spoke a 
_ few words to those nearest the door. And when the 


time came for them to go, David Stevenson came | 


forward, end with a very authoritative air, solely 








IY TR ae aah ree et Kony ne aes i) ba a Siete iy : 
5 She Win BER EB ANT ? Bus Ne satescer a is ite me ANY 
set Me hp ete eee aes 
+ > ” ¢ 





-86u “GS pena FORGET, 


due to the presence of his nea, offered Dorothy : 
his arm, © 
“Mr, Harris will walk with me,” faltered Dorothy, 
shrinking back, 
“By what right?” demanded Davids in & bittes 
under-tone, : 
“By the right of Miss Strode’s wish, sir,” put in 
Dick icily, “and in some measure by the right of 
having been the last person to-whom Miss Dimsdale 
spoke in this world, and in some measure by the 
right of having been one of the three persons who 
saw her die.” 3 
Tt was all over in a minute or two, and only those 
standing very near to them, heard a word at all. 
Dick took hold of Dorothy’s hand and drew her out 
of the room, and the rest of the company followed 
as they would—David Stevenson among them, his 
head well up in air, but his eyes gleaming with 
anger, and his face as white as chalk. 
However, it was useless to show anger about such 
a matter, and the incident passed by. And when the 
last sad office was over, the large company separated, 
only the lawyer from Colchester returning to the 
Hall to make the usual Se aaceeee and to read the 
will to Dorothy. 

“And are you going to remain here for the 
present?” he asked the girl, kindly. 
‘Oh, no, I am going away at once,” she answered. 

“But may I ask where?” he inquired. 

“Yes, we are going away, Barbara and I, for. 8 
ehange—I must get away, it is bier: here, I 
hope I shall never come back again.” 

“You will feel differently after » time,” said the 


i NE Be. Shae inte et as Ce ee Nia A av eal 


THE DAYS: THAT ARE NO MORE, 67 





ee eek kindly : ‘he knew how things were with 
- David Stevenson, though not what Dorothy's feelings 
towards him were. 

‘The three were slone then, Dick Aylmer having’ 
purposely abstained from appearing at the house after 
their return from the churchyard: he was, indeed, at 
that very moment, sitting by the fire in Barbara’s 
little room at the back of the house. 

‘‘ Yes, perhaps after a time,” she answered fever- 
ishly. “ But,Mr. Marks, I wanted to ask you a 
question—Mr. Stevenson told me that I should 
have about a thousand pounds?” 

“About that, I should think; but we cannot tell 
exactly until Miss Dimsdale’s affairs are settled.” 

“ But will you get them settled at once? I want 

to have everything settled,” she said anxiously. 
“ You see, I cannot arrange anything for myself until 


I know just how I stand, and I should like toknow _ 


just what I shall be able to do as soon as possible.” 
- © Very well, we will hurry everything on as much as 
possible,” said Mr. Marks to David, “ Miss voi» 8 
affairs were in perfect order.” 

“Qh! yea, it will be easy enough,” said David; 
then. as the lawyer was gathering his papers 


~. together, he said in an undertone to her, “ You are 


very anxious to shake the dust of Graveleigh off 
your foet, Dorothy.” | 
The great teara welled into her eyes, and fe ES 
moment she could not speak. “I don’t think you 
_ give me much encouragement to do anything else, 
- David,” she said reproachfully. “Iam very anxious 
to go away, because it is dreadful living im this 
house without Auntic—dreadfal; and I am very 


68 a ‘INNA FORGET. 


: alkane David, and I don’t think it is very ‘kind of 
you to be so—so——” but there the sobs choked — 
her and she stopped. “T never thought you would be 
unkind to me,” she said under her breath, 

“Tm a brute,” he answered. “There, don’t cry, 
Dorothy. You shall have everything as you want it.” 

The result of all this was that, two days later, . 
Dorothy and Barbara went off to Bournemouth, accom- 
panied by Lorna Doone in a big basket, and there they 
remained, quietly and gradually recovering from the 
great shock of Miss Dimsdale’s death. If they were 
not very happy in their simple lodgings, they were 
very peaceful, and once Dick came and stayed at a 
hotel near, for a couple of days, and then Dorothy | 
was very happy indeed. 

During this time their banns were published i in one 
of the churches at Bournemouth and also ina London 
church in the parish of which Dick engaged a room 
and put therein some of his belongings, so as to make 
himself a standing in the place. But Dick was only 
at Bournemouth for those two days, and twice when 
David Stevenson was in Colchester on business, he 
happened to meet him in the street, not a little to 
his relief. | 

And Mr. Marks meantime worked away, and, for a 
lawyer, really hurried things up in a wonderful way, 
so that by the time Dorothy’s twenty-first birthday 
came everything was settled, and he was ready to 
hand over to her the money to which she was entitled 
under her aunt’s will. Mr. Marks therefore wrote 
to her, telling her that he was ready to hand over 
to Barbara the sum of one hundred pounds ; to her, 

Dorothy, a sum of thirteen hundred and sith -five 





: © 





He pounds, the 1 gum len over ead save after all ex- 





. ey - penses had been paid. He asked her also when she | 


and Barbara would be able to meet him and Mr, 
Stevenson, the executor of Miss Dimsdale’s will. 
Dorothy replied at once that she would be in 


London two days later, and if it suited them both ~ 


_ would meet them there—would he write to Morley’s 
_ Hotel, to say if that would be convenient? And 
eventually they did meet at Morley’s Hotel, and 
- Dorothy and Barbara signed the necessary papers, 
heard the necessary explanations, and from that 
moment were absolutely free of all connection with 
Graveleigh for ever, if they so wished. 

~ “You will put that cheque into a proper bank,” 
gaid Mr. Marks to Dorothy. 

“Yes,” Dorothy answered, “it will go to the bank 
before three o'clock.” , oe 

«« And remember, if at any time there ie any little 
matter that I can do for you or any advice I can give 
you, you can write to me as a friend, and I will 
ney do my best for you,” the old lawyer said. 

_ «Thank you 80 much,” cried Dorothy. pressing his 
hand affectionately. 

The old man blinked his eyes a little, patted her 
shoulder and coughed, and then took himself rather 
noisily away with a kindly hand-shake to Barbara. 
Then it was David's turn to say good-bye, and he 
stood, poor David, holding her hand in his and 
looking hard at her, az if he was trying to impress 
her featares upon his memory. 

“I wanted to tell you, Dorothy,” he said huskily 
“that I bought the old cobs as you wished, and they 
will have an easy berth im my stable as long as thoy 


live. And I wanted to tell you, tuo, that I meant 
every word of what I said to you the day after Mise 
Dimsdale died ; if ever you want me 7 have only 
to say a single ‘word and I shall come.” 

“You are very good, David,” said abe. ah 
trembling lips. 

‘I don’t know what you are going to do or what 
your plans are,” he went on, “but I hope you will be 
happy, and that God will bless you, wherever you 
are and whatever you do,” and then he bent down 
and kissed her Hhttle slender hands, and without 
looking at her again, rushed out of the room. | 

Poor Dorothy fell sobbing into Barbara’s arms. 
“Oh! Barbara, it is all so dreadful; it brings it all . 
baek again,” she wailed. 

“Nay, nay any dearie, think of what’s going to be 
to-morrow,” Barbara murmured tenaeey, “ Don’t 
grieve like this, my dearie; don’t, now.” 

“But I can’t help grieving a little, Bacher 
Dorothy cried impatiently. ‘ You forget that they 
have been all my life to me until just now. And Auntie 
wanted me to marry David almost until the last, and 
though I couldn’t do that, he has been very kind and 
generous to me, and I hate not to be friends with 
him, after all. And then I meant to tell him a 

little about Elsie Carrington, and then each time I’ve 
seen him I have felt so miserable and so guilty, 
Barbara, that I could have cried of shame. Yea, 
indeed I could.” : 

“ Well, but, my dearie, it’s over now, and David 
Stevenson would not have been satisfied to have you - 
friends with him. Men never do when they want 
Jove. And, after all, it wasn’t your fault that you 








ikea David : I never ao ala abide him mnelt : 


“But Auntie——” Berothy sobbed. 
“Tm sure the dear mistress was the last one in all 
the world to have knowingly made you miserable 


Q about David Stevenson or any other gentleman on 
Sse earth,” Barbara answered positively. “But what _ 


Aer 


did you want to tell him about Miss Carrington, 
dearie ?” 


© Elsie always liked hima,” Dorothy began, when 


_ the old servant interrupted her, 
“Nay, now, Miss Dorothy, take my advice and 


don’t yoube meddling between David Stevenson and 


__ Miss Carrington. They wouldn’t either of them thank : 


you for it if they knew it, and if you was to mention 


her name even it would set Mr. David against her 


_ for ever. Never you trouble your head about him, 
oe he’s no worse off than he’s always been—beiter, im 
_. fact, for he is richer now than before the Hall fell to 

‘him. I dare say he'll feel bad about you for a bit, 


bat remember, Miss Dorothy, that it’s harder to lose’ 
what you have than what you haven't got and never — 


i “ee os had. ”? 





-“ Perhaps you are right, Barbara,” said ‘Dorsey 
little comforted. 

“ Ay, I am right there,” aia Barbars, wisely. | 

Well, the next day Dick Aylmer came up from 
Colchester with all the delight of long leave before 
him, and in the wildest and most joyous spirits, se 
that Dorothy was fairly infected by his gaiety. 


"Phat evening he {>0k her and Barbara to dine at 







nd I’m sure, Miss Dorothy dear, thet you detested _ 


him long enough hefore you ever set eyes ee Me. ie 
Harris.” | 





- Bim poor’ B, asd then to a theatre’ ‘to finish ‘ap ae ; 





evening. And the morning following that, Dorothy, ie 


dressed in a quiet grey gown with her silver belt 


around her waist, got into a cab with the old servant, 


and drove to the church where their banns had been 
“ cried,” and there they met Dick, and the two were 
made man and wife. | 

It was a very quiet and solemn wedding in the 
gloomy empty church, with its dark frowning gal- 
—leries and its long echoing aisles, down which their 
voices seemed to travel as into the ages of eternity. 
- There were only Barbara and the clerk besides — 
the bride and groom, and a couple of Mess 
girls who had been attracted by. the sight of 
Dorothy's pretty grey gown to go in and see the 
wedding. 

And then when the short ceremony was over—end 
eh! what a lifetime of mischief a clergyman can do 
in twenty minutes—Dick kissed his wife, and then 
Dorothy kissed eaahier and they all went in to sign 
the registers. 2 

“You'll have your Hines, Miss Dorothy,” urged 

Barbara. 

.. “No, they are safe enough here,” Dorothy rephed. 

“But I would have them, my dear,” Barbara 
entreated in a whisper. 

“Yes, we will have our lines,” said Dick : oe 
would have agreed to carry the church along if it 
would have given them pleasure, he was so happy — 
jast then. | 


And then they went off to Dick’e hotel, where they | 


had a champagne lunch in a private-room, and Diek — i 


drank to his bride's health, snd Dorothy dreak to hig, — : 





THE DAYS” THAT ARE NO MORE, 


baa and an. drank to them both and then tule 
ae that the wine had got into her head. 
And after that they parted for & short. cs 


eo Dorothy and Barbara going off to Morley’s to fetch 


their luggage and pay their bill, and meeting Dick 
_ again with his belongings at Victoria Station, where 
ce parted in earnest from Barbara, who was going 
to spend the two months with various friends and 
relations in or around London. : 
“ And, Barbara, this will keep you going til we 
get back,” said Dick, slipping twenty pounds into 
_ her hand. | | 
~ “But, Mr. Harris,” cried Barbara, feeling that ‘hee 
were four notes, “it’s too much; I shan’t need it.” 
Take it while you can get it, Barbara,” he 
_ laughed ; “I dare say we shall be despernt ay hard 
up by the time we get back again,” and then the 
~ train began to move, and he pushed her hand back. 
“Good-bye, you have the address: Mrs. Harris 
will write every week,” and then the train had 


_ lipped away beyond gepeaking distance, and 


- Dorothy was obliged to draw her head within the 
window. 

“Poor old Barbara!” she ied. eae 
- Dick caught hold of her hand. “My darling, I 
have got you all to myself at last,” he murmured 
~ passionately. 

They were soon away from London and off to 
Dover, for Dick had foreign leave, and they had 
agreed to spend the next two months by the sunny 

shores of the Mediterranean, where Dorothy would 


a learn to forget the sorrowful parting with her old 
home, and they would seek the lesser towns, where 





eo 





amma 





CHAPTER VIIL 


SIX MONTHS AFTER. 


~ QIIX months had gone by—six glorious and bliss 
fully happy months, during which Mr. and Mrs. 
Harris kept their secret well, and Dick was all the 

world to his wife Dorothy. 

During two of these months they remained abroad, 
living in the smaller towns on the Riviera, seeking 
no interests beyond themselves, but leading a quiet, 
peaceful life of love, of which neither had become 
the least weary when Dicx’s leave was up and it 
was time for him to go back to his duty. 

_Now, as the 48rd were still quartered at Colchester, 
it became a question of some importance for them to 
decide where Dorothy should take up her abode after 
this. Colchester or its immediate neighbourhood 
was, of course, an impossibility, as her whereabouts 
“~might at any moment be discovered, and also Dick’s 
real name. Dick suggested that she might go to 
Chelmsford and take rooms there for the time; but 
Dorothy had stayed more than once in that sleepy 
little town, and it was therefore almost as impossible 
as Colchester itself. So finally they agreed that 
there was no place in the world like London in 
which to hide oneself and have a good time all the 
game, and therefore they came back to town during 
the last week of Dick’s leave, and they took a little 


> es 











6 pa FORGET. oe 


flat in Kensington, just where Dorothy on ‘Barbara | 
could get on very comfortably without any other 
servant, and yet could be near to good ehops and a 
tolerably lively street. ray 

“I’m afraid you'll be awfully dull, darling,” he ; 
gaid to her when they had taken possession, and his 
last evening had come, “because, of course, you 
won't know any one, and you are not at all likely to 
get to know people.” 

“JT ghall have Barbara,” said Dorothy, ailing 
_ bravely. 

“ Yes, you'll have Barbara, but Barbara won’t be 
much company for you,” he answered. ‘I do hate 
all this concealment. I hate leaving you at all, and I 
- hate having to live as it were on the aly, and I’m afraid 
always that some one you know or one of the fellows 
will be seeing you, and that they may get hold of a 
wrong idea altogether, and—and—I sometimes feel 
as if I should like to kill that old savage at Aylmer’s 
Field.” 

“But, Dick dear, nobody will see me, and if they 
do they will think I am Dorothy Strode still — 
Remember, I don’t know many people in all the 
world, and none of your officers know me at all, and 
if they even happened to see me with you they 
wouldn’t think anything of it. Really, I wouldn’t 
- worry about that if I were you, dearest, and as for 
my being dull—why, I am never dull. I never have 
been used to having more than one person at a time 
—Auntie all my life, and now you, I shall get on 
splendidly with Barbara, and I shall always be able 
to look forward to the days when you will be scars A 
home.” 








‘e F TRI oh te Berry cet OE al net ay Ras BR Fear ioe ee sie eyieaiee ls oR Re ea aA ND he pws at ai Bite 
ce cet, eh 7 a, Me x fs : 46% ¥ , 
at Fe! 


RIX MONTHS AFTER, a “at me 


_ “And I shall come like a bird whenever [ get the 
ghost of a chance,” he cried tenderly, : 

“ And I,” cried Dorothy, “am going to make a 
_ study of gowns, I have always been used to makinz ~ 
my ordinary gowns, and I shall have lots of time, — 
and I am going to begin as soon as you are gone. 
ft am going to make myself some beautiful tea- 
gowns; they will make me look married and 
dignified—they will make you respect me, sir.” 
“But you don’t want to look married and 
dignified,” he cried, half tee “Suppose you 
meet some one you know, and 

“T shall not be wearing a tea-gown, Dick,” cried 
Dorothy, with a gay laugh. 

“Ah! no, no, of course not,” he answered, relieved. _ 
<All the same, though, did ‘you not tell me the 
other day that a had a cousin somewhere or 
other?” 

“Oh, per Yes, but she,” carelessly, “ia in 
Egypt.” : . 

«But, my dear child, che won't be in Egypt 
always,” he rejoined ; _ “and if she comes back to 
London, which she is sure to do i 








“By no means, Dick,’ interrupted Dorothy, 
quietly. ‘Esther is just as likely to go off for the 


summer to New Zealand or Finland as to come to 
London. And she would not specially hunt me up 
if she did come here. She is beautiful, and rich, 

and very independent in her mind, but she is six 
years older than I am, and thinks very little of family 
ties, In any case, supposmg that I met her in 
London to-morrow, she would certainly not try to 
pry ito my affairs, and even if I had your leave to 






Cee ‘DINNA FORGHE, 


- fell her part of the: truth, she is Jaiteotly a it 
assure you that you need never worry yourself fors 
ingle moment about my cousin Esther.” gaat ae 
So Dick was pacified, and the following day went 
off to Colchester—not in a very happy frame of 
mind, all the same. “I hate leaving you, Dolly,” he 
said vexedly. “I hate it. P've a good mind to throw 
up my Senet MeL and trust to Fate and the old 
savace.” 

: Dice Dick!” she cried, “how can you ‘be so 
foolish? Supposing that ‘the old savage’ did turn > 
round on you and stopped your allowance, where 
would you be then? If you are in the army you 
have always the chance of going to India, and I 

don’t know that I would not rather be in India as - 
_ Mrs. Aylmer than have these dreadful partings here.” 
“No, no,” he cried hastily, “I couldn’t take you 
out there. Tve always had a sort of horror of the 
- East, and I would do wore banat to avcid running any 
such risk.” 

So he went away, with a lump in his throat which 
made him glad that he was safe in a dab, leaving 
Dorothy to face the next week by herself—that is 
to say, except for Barbara, who was jubilant at 
having got her long holiday over and oe to 
be at work again. | 

To Dorothy, Barbara at this time was a wonder 
ful study, of which she was never tired. For 

Barbara had been born and bred in the country, 
and had lived more years at Graveleigh Hall than __ 
Dorothy could remember, and her comments on 
Town people and Town ways were something mare 
than am ae facie 










ox ‘MONTES aro 


: *. ot t they did things i ina queer sort of fashion at 
oy Holloway. My cousin Joe lives at Holloway—you 


Gh? know, Miss Dorothy—he’s a plumber i in quite a large 


way of business, and has money in the bank and. 
two children at boarding-school learning French 






and music and Heaven knows what beside. Mrs. Z 
oe used to go out every Saturday night to get 


her stores in for the week, as she always said—for 
‘Sunday, I used to think. Never did I see such 
marketings! A quarter of a pound of butter and 


ra four fresh eggs. She regular prided herself on those 
oe fresh eggs. ‘My dear,’ said I one night to her, 
- Sthem eggs have been laid at least a week, and I 


i doubt if I should be far out if I went as far an 


as ten days’ 


_ **You see, Barbara,’ says she, ‘you've hemes used — 

to a country life, with new-laid eggs, and gallons 
of milk and butter by the stone, and I dare say 
you feel a bit pinched-lke here. But if I'd let 


ss myself go in butter and lived on new-laid eggs at 


twopence-ha’-penny each—well, all I can say is, I 
should have had to rest content without any 
boarding-schools or anything put by in the bank.’ 
“T don’t say, Miss Dorothy—Mrs. Harris, Ma’am, 
- [should say,” Barbara went on, inher wisest tones— 
that I should wish to go against my cousin Joe's 
wife in that respect—a thrifty wife is a crown of 
gold to a man that has to work for a living; but 
at eggs that have never seen a hen for nearly a 
fortnight, I do draw the line—to call ’em fresh, 
- that is.” : 
But althongh on most evenings Dorothy used te 
tell the old servant to bring her sewing and come 





PP ee a Ole eC PAC Ue Ore rh ee eee ee Pom TT aber er Ce ee he 
aces er ae iS NA Naar} RS % Se NAT 


and sit with her in the pretty little ‘avi edie, a 
it must be confessed that at this time she found 
her life dreadfully dull, and as each day went by — 





she seemed to miss Dick in her daily life more and. 


more. For though she had been used to a quiet 
country home and a quiet country existence there had 
always been plenty to interest her. Miss Dimsdale, 
if somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas and strict in 
her notions, had been both tender and indulgent to 
her little orphan niece, and had, moreover, always 
been a clever and capable woman with whom to 
associate. Then about a country house there are 
always so many different points of interest. Either 
the moles have worked at last from the meadow 
under the hedge and below the very best bit of the 
velvet lawn which is the very pride and delight of 
your eyes, or the rats have suddenly acqnired a pert 
measure of audacity and have scraped and bitten a 
new hole in the corn-bin or the newly filled potato- 
_ bags, or have gone further and found their way 
into the principal pantry and created a regular 
stampede among your servants. Or perhaps you 
catch one of the sinners in a new trap which cost 
five-and-sixpence, and when you go to see its wicked, 
hoary old occupant, you feel that if it never catches 
another, this one is well worth the money. Or if — 
traps and other means, consisting of horribly smell-_ 
ing poisons suggestive of the infernal regions, fail 
you, perhaps you have the professional rat-catcher 
up from the village with his box of sinuous red- 
eyed ferrets, and then you have yen tever ne on 
the rats. , 

‘There is no end to the interest which houly | 








—™ MONTHS mm. = 


<< — up ext of ‘the unexpected in @ Sacks: life. 


_ Perhaps the speckled hen starts laying, or she 
_ shows unmistakable signs of a stronger instinct of 
maternity than usual. Or one of the cobs casts a 
shoe, or a wind gets up in the night and tears a 
_ large branch off the great weeping-willow which 

_@helters the most easterly corner of your garden, 

where the wind sweeps up the keenest, straight from 
. the great North Sea. Or maybe the corner of the 
_ shrubbery, where the mushrooms have always grown, | 
nobody ever knew why, has suddenly bloomed out — 
-with broad pinkish fungi, and you feel as if you had 


_ found a fortune, although you know perfectly well 


that the market value of what you have discovered 





is not, at the outside, more than threepence. Still, — : 


_ that does not lessen your pleasure in the least, and — 
- you carry them indoors and present them to every 
_ member of your household, your visitors if you have 
any, your family, and finally to your cook, as if— 
well, as if you were a second Columbus and aad 


discovered a new America. 


_ Then in the country you are a neighbour of every- 
_ body’s! If you live as Dorothy Strode had been 
used to live all her life, you know why Janet Wenham 


was not at church on Sunday, and why Elizabeth ~ | 
 Middleham’s girl left that nice place at Whittington, 


and how Elizabeth Middleham cried for days over it, 
and her girl’s intention to take service in London 
and see life. And you know all about it when Mrs. 


Jones has her mauve dinner-gown dyed chestnut- — 


brown, and how it is that the Rectory curtains keep 
clean year after year, although white silk with a 
delicately tinted stripe he be ruined in thse 


£ 
£ 






“DONNA FORGET, 





months in some ° houses. “You you ee ae or - 
about everybody in the country, almost without 


knowing why you know it. 


But in Town, in London-town, it is all so different. 
It is true that when you get known in London, the 
gossiping is nearly as bad as if you were the centre 


of a small village set; but to a girl situated as 


Dorothy was, London is a social blank. She knew 
nobody, and nobody knew her. She did not want 
to know any one, and apparently the inhabitants of — 
the Metropolis returned the compliment. Yet never- 


theless it was terribly dull. Her pretty little flat 


was on the ground floor of the block of buildings : 
which was dignified with the name of Palace 
Mansions, ao she had people above and people below 
her. But Dorothy knew them not. There was a sweet- 
faced lady on the first floor immediately above her, 
a lady who dressed well and had a sweet-faced little 
child with her sometimes, and Dorothy fairly yearned 
over her and longed to say “ Good morning” when 
they met in the common hall of the Mansion. But 
the sweet-faced lady did not know the exact stand- 


ing of Mrs. Harris who lived at No. 4, and in her 


dread of even rubbing elbows with “a person” she 
resolutely made her eyes stone and her lips steel 
whenever she saw the slight girlish figure approach- 
ing her. ; 

Then there was a lady at No. 9—that ‘was the 
basement, a sort of Welbeck Abbey in miniature, 
She, being a stout and ‘buxom widow whose grand- 
children came running in at all times from a house 
on the other side of the High Street, might have 
ventured a kindly word even to “a person ; 43 but ahe 


Eo 










pe pie est eran vert aS awe Seiya 
a) e 5 Ian 
m MONTH AFTER 3 


: ; son é did. No, on 1 the contrary, “wheupver dis: came oe 
_ @eross poor Dorothy she invariably sniffed, which 


B was rude, to say the least of it. 


Then there was an old gentleman who walked: up 
and down in front of her windows every morning | 
’ from half-past nine to ten o’clock, and again every 
afternoon from half-past two to three. He looked 
like an old General, and Dorothy felt quite friendiy — 
towards him—because he belonged to her darling 


 Dick’s profession. But even an old General can get 


- monotonous in time, particularly when he does the 


: game things day after day—and this one always did. 


After his early morning constitutional, he invariably 
tee in to his house and was seen no more until he 
game out to do his half-hour of regular tramping 
again at half-past two. But after his second dose he 
always looked at his watch when an adjacent clock — 

struck the hour, and then shook himself together and 
toddled off as if he were going to Town—going to 


his club, Dorothy thought. 


But oh! dear, dear, it was all dreadfully slow, and 
before she had been a month in her new home 
Dorothy was pining, pining for some woman-friend 
to talk to, to confide in, to be friends with. 

- Of course, to set off against this, there were the 
gay and glorious times when Dick came home, 
‘sometimes only between afternoon parade and morn- 
ing stables, which meant a little dinner somewhere, 
a theatre after it, and a wild scramble and rush to 
- eatch a train leaving Liverpool Street at some 
-wnearthly hour in the morning. At other times, 
however, Dick managed to squeeze a two-days’ leave 
ont of his Colonel, and then Dorothy felt—ay, and 









Pee eh swesg a eR 





Tipe PC ee EN tr rah SRL LARPS ote hat ant Cae Rice fae Sonics Te ee por bp hee 





“DINNA, ronorr. x ae e 


said, poor child—that life was worth living: and ‘that 
she would not change her lot for that of any other : 
-. woman in all the wide world. 
80, poor child, her life slipped by in a continual 
- change from grave to gay, with bright spots of 
_ deepest and tenderest love set in a large surface of 
unutterable dullness and wearying depression. 
“ ] wonder,” she said one day to Dick, “ whether, 
when we are able to be always together, you will 


get tired of me and if I shall bore you?” 


“No,” said Dick, promptly. 

« You really think not?” eagerly, ~ 

“T don’t think at all,” he said tenderly, “because 
I am sure of it. What makes you ask me that, 
dearest? Have I ever looked bored or asif Iwas — 
tired of you?” — 

«Qh! no, Dick, no!” she burst out; “ < only you are 
so good and kind to me, and it eee 80 wonderful 
that you, who have been in the world all your life, 
should take so much trouble for a little nobody like 
me—TI mean that I know nothing, how should I, after 


ce living all my life at Graveleigh ¢” 


Dick laughed aloud at the earnestness of her face 
- and tone. 

“My darling,” he said, holding her close to his 
heart, “I have been no more kind and tender to - 
you than you have been to me. You don’t set half 


enough value on your dear self, the most precious 


self to me in all the world. Believe me, a man does 
not care so much what his wife knows as what she 
fs—and you forget what I always remember, that 
you might have liked the other fellow best, and yeu 


didn't.” 















oT Ay ag “ 


“x vowrms Arr, 


«The other fellow,” Dorothy faltered 
mean David Stevenson.” 

“Yes, I mean David Stevenson,” Dick ansy 
“Many a girl would have taken him before a. 
pauper devil, who had to ask his wife to live ¢ inooy 
in a poor little hole like this. Do you know, I went — 
round to have a look at Stevenson’s place, Holroyd, 
the other day, and when I saw it—shall I tell you 
what I did, my sweetheart ?” 

“Yes,” answered Dorothy, in a whisper. 

“T went round to the churchyard where she lies, 
vur best friend, and I thanked God and her, if she 
could hear me, that my dear little love had given me 
her pure love in exchange for mine, and that Miss 
Dimsdale’s wishes had never been to part us. Don’t 
- hurt me again by asking me doubting questions, a 
darling. Don’t, Dorothy, don’t, my dear.” 

“Dick, Dick,” Dorothy cried, “I never will I 
love you, love you, love you!” ae 

« And you will always love me?” teasingly. 

«Qh, Dick!” reproachfully. | 

«“ Hven when 5s : 
- Dorothy blushed, but she put her arm round his 
~meck, and drew his mouth down to hers. “TI shail 
always love you best of all, D*sk,” she said; “and — 
however much I may love th child, § shall leve # 
most because of you.” | 





AEE RCP inn DN ee TENT! OOM on RTE COTTE ee 








CHAPTER IX. | 


AN UNEXPECTED APPOINTMENT. 


BOUT two months after this a sort of avaluteniio 

fell upon the little household in Palace 

_ Mansions: It took the form of a letter from Lord 

Aylmer, the old savage at Aylmer’s Field, and as Dick 

in his first surprise exclaimed, “Now, who the devil 

‘was to expect the old savage would be up to this 
sort of game?” 


‘It began by assuring his nephew thet he was 


enjoying the very best of health, that he had not 


had a touch of gout for something over three 
months, but that her ladyship was in exceedingly 
queer health—that she was, indeed, thoroughly out 


of sorts, and at present giving both himself and hee 
medical adviser cause for the gravest anxiety. Then 
he went on to say that he had just had a visit of 
nearly a week from his old friend Barry Boynton— 
“That's Lord Skevversleigh,” said Dick, as he read 
the letter aloud—and that Barry Boynton had just 
been appointed Governor-General of Madras, and that 
as he—‘the old savage ”—felt his nephew could not 


lose by advancement in his profession, whether he— 


ever happened to come in for the Aylmer title o¢ 

not, he had put in a good word for him with hig 
old friend, with the result that Barry Boynton hed 
promised to appoint him as his military secretary, 










AN ‘UNEXPECTED ‘APponMOnNT, oe a We 
‘But, Dic a ” Dorothy cried, “that means ie a r 3 


© «Nota bit of it, my darling,” Dick cried; “Tl see — 


only go to India on one condition—that I go as a — 


tke old savage at perdition before I accept it. a 


free man; that is, with you as my acknowledged o 
wife.” me 


Then they read the letter over again, and ‘made 


their comments upon it—she with her sweet face — 


bout her waist. 

_ “The amount of delicate sifoitnation he conveys 
“is really remarkable,” Dick laughed. Dick, by-the- 

bye, was on a ten-days’ leave, and was jovial and 


a 


ie 


pressed. against his cheek, he with his arm close _ 


inclined to view the whole world through rose- — 


coloured glasses in consequence: “ that is to let — 


‘me know that I needn't expect to step into 
_ his shoes for many a day yet. Bless me, if he 


_kmew how little I care about it, one way or "the ; 


~ other.” 


“Nor I,” Dorothy chimed in ; “ except—except that - 


we should always be together then, Dick,” with a 
soft touch of yearning in her voice. | 
- “But we are always together in heart, my 


dearest,” cried Dick, fondly. ‘And my lady’s health 


is causing him the gravest anxiety—h’m! We may 
take that with a grain of salt. Gravest anxiety! 
Why, if my lady was lying at death’s door that old 
gavage wouldn't be anxious, unless for fear that 
she should get better. However, as they arein Town 
I must go and inquire after her ladyship. She's a 
hard nail enough, but she has always been good to 
me in her way, and she’s worth a thousand of him 
— gny day. And then I can tell the old savage that he 


Oa NAL hat nee rian Sea MNP CATR Sr SPe Se Ry PLS Vn Tes em LU URS GANCRS CAREER anlar 
’ rt pins ieee ULE Fae TES a EES . 





: he ee | DINNA FORGET, ae a. 

| ey use his duinanes wih hig jee old friend Barry 

- Boynton for somebody else.” 

<2 © But you won't do anything rash, Dick 7 ‘d Dorothy 

/ .eried, 

., » “Certainly not-—why should I? But I shall tell 

_ bim I have no fancy for India, and that I'd rather 

oo stop at home.” 

. “But supposing that he says no,” said Dorothy: 

who in her heart regarded Dick’s “old savage” as an 
all-powerful being who had it in his power to make 
or mar her very existence. __ 
“Oh, I think he will hardly insist, one way ‘or the 
other,” he answered easily. “Anyway, I must go 
atid be civil to my lady, who isn’t half a bad sort, 
and gently intimate my decision to-my lord.” 

~« When will you go, Dick? ” Dorothy asked. 

To-day, I think, dearest,” he replied; “just after 
lunch will be a good time. The savage is never 

q auste so savage after a meal as at any other time.” 

A strange and sickly faintness began to creep over 
_ Dorothy, a dull and indefinable sense of forebod- 
ing rose in her heart, and threatened to suffocate 
her. ‘Shall you be long there?” she faltered. e 

“Well, if I am,” returned Dick, with a laugh, “i¢ 
will be a new experience for my deligh+ful uncle, for 
I never stopped a single minute longer in his house — 
than I could help, since I can remember.” 

‘Then he happened—attracted by her silence, and 
the absence of the sweet laugh which generally 
echoed his—to turn and look at her. The next 
moment he had caught her in his arms, and was 
kissing her as a man only kisses the one woman that 
he loves ig all the w orld, 






> wo they are; brt you—you are my life—my very - 
—goul—the light of my eyes; why, you are myself. 
Why, to put my love and care for you in comparison 


MMe A ae ERI AON LPN ter Fa SARC aM EP CSI ACR A gM RUA Se a MTT CRT ye Sy Re ea 
4 >| 4 é 4 n 2 _ : A 


(AC ONKPoTD arponemomre 89 


«My love, my love,” he cried, “my dear, sweet 
little love, don’t look like that. What is it you fear? - 


different in any way, so far as you are concerned ? m 
“‘ They are your people,” she faltered, “ and——” 


’ Not that I shall ever change toward you, or te © C | 


kas 


“My people!” he echoed contemptuously. “Yes, 


for one instant with what I feel for all my people 
together, would be too funny for words, if you were 
not distressed about it. But when I see you look 
like that, darling, it hurts me so awfully—it cuts me 
up, so that I can hardly talk or think sensibly. My 


dear little love, there is nobody in all the wide world __ 
that I could ever put beside you, or ever shall.” 


« You are sure?” she cried. 


Tam quite sure,” he answered, looking her | 


atraight and true in the eyes. “And now, my dearest, 


it is half-past eleven ; let me take you out for a turn 


before lunch-time.” 


He always found it an aaay matter to comfort ang 


re-assure the little wife who loved him so dearly, 


_ and although, by living so much alone and without 
proper companionship, she was apt to brood over the 


ciroumstances of her life, and to conjure up all sorte 
of gloomy fancies and dread shadows which might 


eome to pass at some future time, these mists always. 


yielded before the irresistible sunshine of his love, 


~. and they were happier, if possible, than they had gts: 
 qforetime. | 
In his innermost heart, however, Dick was not se: 
 gaay about his approaching interview with Lord 








“4 a Ty ‘FORGED, 


“ie Aylmer as he made Dorothy believes Atel aed : 3 


} 


a She, 


7% 


-. gt the door of the old savage’s town house with — 


rather a quaking heart, and something of the vague 
‘dread which he had coaxed and soothed away fom 
his wife’s tender heart. 


: 4 Yes, Lord Aylmer was at home, and her fadyatin 
also; and the servant, having no special orders about 


‘Mr. Aylmer, at. once showed him into a pretty little 
room off the smallest of the two drawing-rooms, and 
told him that he would inform her ladyship of his 
presence. And in less than three minutes, Lady 
Aylmer came. | : 
“My dear Dick,” she said, “I am most pleased to 


gee you. I did not know that you were in town. 
_ Is it true that Lord Skevversleigh has made you his 


military secretary? I quite though you had set 


oe face against India at any price.” 


Dick Aylmer was so surprised that he sat staring — 
at his uncle’s wife in speechless surprise. She noticed 
his look, and asked with a laugh, “What is the 
matter, Dick? You look as if you had seen a ghost.” 

“Not a ghost, Lady Aylmer,” he said, recovering 
himself; ‘but I certainly expected to see more of a 


ghost than you are at this moment.” 


“ Why, how do you mean?” 

“JT had a letter from Lord Aylmert his morning, 
and he said that you were ill.” 

“Til! I?” she echoed. “ Nonsense, you rite have 
mistaken him. I was never better in my life.” — 
 “T couldn’t possibly mistake him,” said Dick, 
firmly. ‘However, I'll show you the letter. there is 


nothing at all private in it.” 


So Lady Aylmer took the letter and read it, 


Ee TE pee TRS ge Ste aT Met NO Ra LR ar Oe 
SMO OTe ea ty eka ee 7 Pies SERS ; Beeb ee ie 





“AM UNEXPEOTED APPonrTMEN® oe a : 


a “Pm,” abe! muttered. “I am afraid the niall is o 


“a 
Wa 


father to the thought, my dear boy,” she said drily. 


“It’s trae [had a touch of toothache or neuralgia _ 
about a week ago, entirely because he was consumed — 
_ with gout—though, mind, he declares stoutly that he gh 
_hasn’t had gout for more than three months—and 
_ persisted in having the window open all the way from — 
Leicester. But as for my health or any one’s health — 


a, he 


| lite ae tah 


but his own giving him a moment’s anxiety—why, “4 


- . the idea is ludicrous, simply ludicrous. The gravest 


anxiety, indeed. H’m! If I was lying at the point 
of death his lordship might be anxious till the breath 
was out of my body.” 

“That was just what I said to—to count ” said 
Dick, who had been on the very point of uttering 
his wife’s name. ‘“ However, Lady Aylmer, I am 
very glad to find that you are all right and in good 


health.” 
«“ Thank you, Dick,” she replied, holding out her 


‘hand to him; then, after a moment's silence, she 


suddenly buret out, “ Dick, what is he after? ” 
Lord Aylmer? I don’t know,” Dick answered. 

- © He is after something, I’ve known it for weeks, 
‘but I cannot make out what,” Lady Aylmer went on. 
“First, by his persistence that he has not got the 
' gout. I have been married to him a great many 


years, but I never knew him deliberately deny him- 


self the pleasure of gloating over his gout Darore: 
He must mean something by it. I thought, of course,” 
phe went on, with a nonchalant air, “that there was 
somebody else, But his anxiety about my health, 
and his desire to pack you off to India, where he 
Jmows you don’t want to go, make one think 





SEES 


4 ee os BD, FORGES, 


ie differently In any case, go to the ribenéy and see 


him, and whatever you do, my dearest boy, don’t 
“frritate him. Don’t contradict him; tell him at once 
that you don’t want to go to India—that is, if you 
« really don’t want to do so; but if he insists, take my 


| . most serious advice and temporise—put the time on 


i 


Ce Gein him you must have a week in which 


- to consider the idea.” 
- Yea, Pll do that,” said Dick, rising. 

«Stay, we had better send to him first,” said Lady 
#Aylmer, touching the button of the bell. “Yea 
Jenkins, tell Lord Aylmer that Mr. Aylmer is here 


_gand wishes to see him.” 


_ Best to treat him in the imperial way that satisfies 
him,” said her ladyship to Dick, as the man closed 


the door behind him. “I always do it when |] — 





ant to make him a little more human than 
usnal. I don’t do it at other times, because he is 


eminently a eee with whom familiarity breeds 
- contempt.” 
Dick laughed outright. “Very well, I will be 
most careful,” he replied; then added, “It’s awfully | 


good of you to give me a good tip out of your 
experience. I have never been able to hit it off 
with his lordship yet. Perhape I shall be more 
fortunate this time.” 


“You may be. You know, of course, Dick, that it — 


was your steady refusal to marry Mary maneE dele 
tha* set him so thoroughly against you.” 
s‘ Mary Annandale’s money,” corrected Diek. — 
“Ah! yes, it ia the same thing,” carelessly, 
“But I don’t believe Mary Annandale would ie 
hed me,” Dick declared. . 





| AM UNEXPEOTED APPOINTMENT, = -93_— 
4 Perhaps not, Still, you never gave her a Sree | 
did you? Now, of course, it is too late.” = 

a Very much too late,” returned Dick, proatlet ; 

and grinning good-humouredly at the remembrance 
- of how very much too late it was for him to build 
_ up the fortunes of the house of Aylmer by means of 
a rich wife. re 
_ _He turned as the door opened again, § “ ae lord- - 
, ship will be pleased to see you in the library, Sir,” 
said Jenkins, : 

“ T will come,” said Dick. 

“And good luck go with you,” said Lady Aylmer 
kindly, as he went. “Come back and tell me how 
you get on.” ae 

Poor Dick! he did not get on very well. He — 

found Lord Aylmer sitting in a big chair in the 
_ library, looking ominously bland. nee 
“Good morning, Sir,” said Dick. : 
“Oh, good morning, Dick; sit down, my boy,” 
rejoined Lord Aylmer, quite tenderly. 8 
_ Dick gave himself up for lost at ORO: but ne oat 
~ down and waited for “the old savage” togo on with | 
the conversation, Fora minute or so Lord Aylmer 
did not speak; he moved his left foot uneasily, in 
a way distinctly suggestive of gouty twinges, and — 
fidgeted a little with his rings and his finger-nails, 

« You got my fetter,” he remarked at last. 

“Yes, I did, Sir; that brought me _ here,” Dick 

answered. 

“Ah, that’s all right,” said the old lord, in a self- 
 gatisfied tone. “ Gréat piece of luck for you, my 
ae = el great piece of luck. I couldn’t have got it for 

= anyone else; in fact, I rather fancy Barry Boynton 





4 


= 





~ had Somebody else in his eye, ies of course, he | 

-. eouldn’t very well refuse me. Still, of course, I had 
‘~ to tell him you were devilish anxious for the 
- @ppointment.” 

.— “But Pm not devilish anxious a for the xppalntn ener | 
‘Dick broke in at last. “I’m not anxious for it at all.” 


> For a minute or two the old man looked at him in 


~ profound amazement. “Damme, Sir, do you mean 


to say you're going to turn round on me after all the 
trouble I've taken for you? Damme, Sir, do you 
mean to tell me that?” 

“Not exactly that,” answered Dick, still keeping 
betty Aylmer’s advice in his mind, “ but——” : 
“Then what do you mean, Sir?” roared the old 
eo losing his temper altogether. 

_ I mean this,” said Dick, firmly: “up to now I 
have, as you know, always set my face against going 
to India. I hate and loath the very idea of it, Eng- 
land is good enough for me, and I went into the 


48rd on purpose that I might not have to go to 


India, or lose a lot of seniority. What I want to ~ 
know is this—What has.made you take a lot of 
trouble, and put. yourself under an obligation to Lord 
Skevversleigh, in order to bring about what you 
know would be utterly distasteful to me?” 

Lord Aylmer looked at Dick as if words had failed 
him, but presently he found his tongue and used it 
freely. “Damme, Sir,’ he roared, “do you mean te 
accuse me of any sneaking, second-hand motives? — 
"Pon my soul, Sir, I’ve a good mind to write to Lord 
Skevversicigh and ask him to consider the appoint- 
ment refused. But stay,” as he saw by Dick’s face 
that this would be the most desirable course he sould 








ee take, «] will a no such ey Delis Sir, I'v ve. had 


about enough of your airs and graces. Hark you,” 
and mark what I say! To India you go, without’ 
another word ; or I cut off your allowance from this 2 
_ day week, every penny of it. As you yourself said — 
just now, I go to a lot of trouble for you, put my- — 
self under a great obligation to a friend in order to — 
‘serve you, and all the return I get for it is, that you — 


get on your high horse and accuse me of second- 
hand motives. Damme, Sir, it’s intolerable—simply 
intolerable. And I suppose you think I don’t know 
why you want to shirk a year or two in India, eh?” 


“T don’t understand you, Sir,” said Dick, with icy — 


civility. 

“No, no, ot course not, And you think I didn’t 

see you the other night at the Criterion, and mop-. 
_ ping your eyes over ‘David Garrick’ afterwards. 
Bah! you must think I’m a fool.” 
-_ For a moment Dick was startled, but he did not 
show it by his manner in the least. “ Well, Sir,” he 
said . quietly, “JT have never been in the habit of 
asking your permission to take a lady to a theatre.” 

“No,” the old savage snarled in return; “nor 
when you wanted to start pone g in Palace” 


- Mansions either.” 


* No, Sir,” said Dick, fimaly “nor when I wanted 


,  4o start housekeeping either.” 
_ And that was why you refused to marry Mary 


7 ae le?” Lord Aylmer snapped. 
Not at all. I refused to ask Miss Annandale re 
_ marry me because I did not care about Miss AAAS 


: dale.” 


“Bah!” grunted the ah man, in a fury, 





¥ 
" 





— 96 | INNA, vonae?, 


suppose you believe in all that rot shout m marrying 


. for love.” 


-. >. Most certainly I do.” 
~ “ And you mean to do it?” 


“T don’t mean to marry anybody at ky: anid 


‘ “Dick coolly. He felt more of a sneak than he had 
- ever felt in all his life to leave the old man in his 


belief that his dear little Dorothy was less to him — 
than she was, yet he knew that for her sake, for the 


_ gake of her actual bodily welfare, he could not afford 
to have an open declaration of war just then. Sneak 
or no sneak, he must manage to put the time ona 
little until the child had come, and all was well with 
Dorothy. 


Lord Apter rose from his chair i in a rage of totters — 


ing fury. ‘“ Listen to me, Sir,” he thundered. “It may 
be all very pretty and idyllic and all that, but you 


wouldn’t marry the woman I chose for you, and now 


you shall go to India to pay for it, It’s no use you 
thinking you have any choice in the matter—you 


haven’t. Ive had enough of your excuses, and your 


shilly-shallying, and all your puling sentimentality, 


love, and all the rest of it. tila vats Aetapihoske i. ; 


love ?” 


guggested Dick, in his mildest tones, © 


“And repented it before three months had gone 


hig atl head, and have gone on repenting ever 


since,” the old man snarled. “Damme, Siz, that 


woman is never tired of throwing it at me. If I'd 
married her for her money, she couldn’t very well 
have thrown that at me—been a fool if she had.” 


There was a moment's silence, then the old Lord 


“I believe you caied for love yourself, Sir,” 





went on again, “Look here, Dick, you've get te 
make up your mind to one thing—I mean youto go 
to India, so you ek as well go with a good grace.” __ 
“Til think it over,” said Dick. Mis: 
“T want an answer now,” irritably. 


«That's impossible, Sir, unless you like to take cc 


no for an answer, right away,” Dick replied firmly. — 
_ “T suppose you want to talk the matter over with 
the young lady in Palace Mansions,” said the ald 
Lord, in his most savage tones, 
_ “T don’t think that would interest you, whether F 
did or not,” said Dick, coldly; “ but one thing is very 
certain, which is that I am not going to India with- — 
out thinking the whys and wherefores thoroughly 
over. I will come again on Friday, and tell: you my 
intentions.” | 
«And you'll bear in mind that a refusal: of the 
appointment cuts off your allowance at once.” 


«JT will bear everything in mind,” said Dick, 


- steadily ; ; and then he shut the door, sage: the old 





man alone. 


«Well? ” tied Lady Aylmer, whan he looked in 


to the little boudoir again. “How did you geton?” — 


_“ We didn’t get on at all,” Dick answered. “He 
means me to go to India by hook or by croo 

«And I wonder,” said my lady mae 
“what it is that be has in bis mind. No good, I’m 
- afraid.” 


CFR iets as nna ay aR a RAN a etched 4 


CHAPTER XK, 


DINNA FORGET, 


¥TER this interview it was Dick’s pleasant task 
A to go home and tell the news to his wife, It 
had to be done; it was useless his trying to shirk it, 
- because Dorothy knew why and where he had gone, 
and was too eager to hear the result of his visit. to his 
uncle to let him even light a cigarette in peace, until 
ehe had heard all that there was to hear ; in fact, as 
soon as he put his key into the door she flew out to 
meet him. “Dick, is it good news & ahe cried 
eagerly, 

Now Dick could not honestly say that it was good 
news, but then he did not wish to tell her how bad it 
was all at once; so he gently prevaricated, kissed 
her with even more than his usual tenderness, and 





asked her if ehe had been very dull without him, and — | 


whether he had been too long away. 


His well-meaning prevarication had exactly the 


opposite effect to that which he had intended. 
Dorothy’s sensitive heart went down to zero at once, 


and the corners of her sweet lips drooped ominously 
“Oh! Dick, it is bad news,” she said mournfully, 
“and you are trying to hide it from me,” 


“No, no. I am not,” he said hurriedly, “ But 
there’s no need to tell all our private affairs out here | 


for everybody to hear.” 





fe “But. thes isn’t any Gayhndee said Dorothy ; ue 
« “theres only Barbara.” 

In spite of his anxiety, Dick burst out leugtine. 
“Come in here, my darling,” he said, drawing 
her towards the drawing-room; “and you shall 
give me a cup of tea while I tell you all 
about it.” 

“And you've not prarcncd to go?” she asked, as 
_ she began to make the tea. “No, don’t trouble, 
Dick dear, it is lighted, and the water will boil in 


two minutes.” | 
_. $he had a pretty little brass stand, a tray, spirit- 
lamp, and kettle, and with this apparatus she always 


made the tea herself, with much pride, and some 
~~help from Dick. It generally fell to Dick’s lot to light — 
the lamp, but to-day she was all ready for him, and 
had but to turn up the light a little to have the water 
boiling. 
“There,” she said, after about five minutes, and 


handing him a cup of tea. “ Now tell me all—every- 


thing.” 
ae Well,” aid Dick, finding himself ‘thus fairly up 
in a corner, and unable to put off the evil moment 
any longer, “1 went.” 
“Yes?” eagerly. 
“ And I eaw her ladyship.” 
“Qh! and is she up?” 
“Up! My dear child, Lady Aylmer is as well as 
I am,” he answered. 
Dorothy looked at him in wonder. “Oh! Dick,” 
ghe cried, “ but what a wicked old man!” 
“ Ah! I fancy it runs in the blood,” said Dick, 
easily. “One man couldn’t have so much original 


cia 





OS aay Paap Re tag) SE IP STS ST CALAN TEI nnd est athe eee: aes teas Sua 


100 Soe ls See INNA, ‘FORGERY, 


en 


ain of his own as ther old savage has; tt mast be 
heredity.” 

“ Then do you think you al tell henibhe Efskad 

stories when you are Lord Aylmer, Dick?” she 
asked roguishly. — 
“Perhaps—who knows? All ine same, there is 
one story I shall never tell you,” drawing her 
‘tenderly towards him. “I shali always be true as 
the gospels when I tell you that I love you better 
than any other woman in all the world.” 

Something in his voice touched the tendercet 
chords of her heart, and set it throbbing and beating 


with a sickening sensation of fear. “Dick,” she said 


in a whisper, “is it very bad news that you are 
trying to break to me—does it mean India, after 
all?” 

Dick looked straight into her clear eyes. “My 
dear little love,” he said, “I am afraid it does mean 
India, after all; but if it does, it shall mean India for 
us both,” 

- He told her everything then—how Lady Aylmer 
had received him, how she had openly declared that 
her husband had some scheme of his own to get rid - 
of them both, how the old savage had received him, 
and what end their interview had cometo. ‘* But ef 
course,’ he wound up, “although I took time to 

consider it, my mind was made up in a moment. J. 
shall refuse the appointment.” 3 

There was a moment's silence, “ Dick dearest,” 
gaid Dorothy in a quavering voice, “is it a very 
good thing to be a military secretary to a governor- 
general ? ” 


a Ob! well—yes—it 1s, dear, he admitted, 











“be i a a es te wn a, ED ete | Pee ee at set te EV Ty ar hn CRE RRL. pla? © Ct it pee ie” Se ees 
Chiral hh haan ae Cap aegs (ae rel ee Aare . 3 ’ p pt % ai i 
; ee Pi ee St eie ah iN my + : ; * ean 
site San Ye an ? "ie 5 : , 





« In mean, would you have refused it if you had not 
Ween married, if you had never seen me?” : 

“No, I don’t suppose I should. I dare say I shoal 
never have bothered to get such an appointment, , 
because, as you know, I hate the very idea of going — 
to India, but at the same time, to be quite honest, I 
don’t suppose Ishould have refused. I don’t sdb 
any man in his senses would.” 

_ Dorothy drew her breath sharply, a8 for a minute 
or two did not speak. “Dick, darling,” she said at 
lenthg, “it is true that you are married, but I don’t 
‘see that that is es ane why you should not bei in 
your senses too.” 

“What do you mean, Dorothy ?” he Asked quickly. 2 
“Well, just this. Supposing that Lord Aylmer 
~ had let you refuse this appointment, and had not — 

- iale himself disagreeable about your allowance, we 

_ should have to go on just as we are doing now, And, 
of course, Dick dear, I should like to be Mrs. Aylmer 
instead of Mrs. Harris, and to live with the regiment 
rather than in Palace Mansions ; but—but, at the 
game time, since there is so much to be gained 
by it, I would just as soon be Mrs, Harris in 
one place as in another, if I must be Mrs. Harris 


vat all.” 
Dick caught her close to him, “Dorothy, you 
- mean ” he began. 





_ «J mean,” she ended firmly, “that I would sooner 

- go to India as Mrs. Harris than drag you down in 

your profession, and put you at loggerheads with 

-_- your uncle; because he is your uncle, and the head 

of your family, even eoyek he is such an old savage 
ae apse tual 


108 ee "INNA voucrt, en ee 


“But, my Mas my dear, do you ie thet in htt 


case I should have to go at once?” he oried, 
“ Yes, I know that, Dick,” she answered. 


«But I can’t leave you alone, just now—I on é 
Dorothy,” he exclaimed. “ It’s impossible ; it would be 


Inbuman. Why, I should be out of my taind with 
anxiety and distress.” 

“No, no—you would know that I was proud and 
happy to be able to do something to help you,” she 
replied, “I would rather that you were here; but, 
then, I would always rather that you were here, That 
is not a new feeling forme. And I shall not be alone. 
I shall have Barbara, you know. Barbara will take 


care of me, and let you know exactly how I get on.” 


“No; I cannot let you do it,” he said, when she 
paused. 

“Yea, yes, you can, dear. Besides, it is not ook 
ourselves that we have to think of. There is the 
child; and although if we go to India together, we 
might be able to get along pretty well by ourselves, 
we should not be able to afford to send the child 
home, if the climate was bad for it. Why, Dick 
dear, we should not be able to afford to come home 
ourselves, if we could not stand the heat.” 

-“« That is true,” he admitted. 

«And don’t you think,” she went on eagerly, 
“that I would rather live as I am doing now fora year 





eres 


or two longer than I would run the risk of seeing . e 


you die, perhaps, because we had not money to bring 


ushome? Just think what I should feel like if we 
were in such a case as that.” 


“But, darling, you don’t know—you don’t pealios 


_ how very different life would be out there,” he urged, 


| BDO YoRorr, = 103 é 


os “ Hore, very fow people take tho trouble to notice us, 
one way or another, and if they do, it does not much 
matter. But out there, as military secretary I 
should have a lot to do. I should scarcely have a 
moment to myself. I should not be able to go any- 
_ where with you, and probably very seldom be able to 
_ @ome and see you.” 

_ “But you would be able to come sometimes,” she — 
_ answered, with a brave smile, “Every one knows 
that half a loaf is better than no bread, and if one 
- cannot get even half a loaf, it is foolish to quarrel 
_ with the slice which keeps one from starving.” 
Dick’s heart felt like to break. “Dorothy Dorothy, 
he said, “my dear little brave unselfish wife, every 
word you say makes me love you a thodéand times 
more than I did before. My dearest, I give in te 
anything that you wish; youshall decide everything, © 


and I—I will give all the rest of my life to trying to 


make you feel that you did not throw away your love 
and confidence when you gave them to me.” : 
So they arranged that Dick should accept the | 
appointment of military secretary to Lord Skevvera- 
leigh, and that two days later he should go and see 
his uncle again, and tell him the decision to which he 
had come. Dorothy had begged him to go and see — 
him the following day, but Dick held out firmly 
there. No, he would have one more day of liberty 
before he went over to the enemy and gave himself 


oe We will have areal happy day, darling,” he said, 
- when Dorothy had given way about imparting the 
news to the savage. ‘“By-and-bye we shall have 
_ more money than opportunity of spending it together, 






Dl pn a yonaae, cs 


_ let us make hay while we can. “Fit, wer 1 ge 
_ and have a look at the shops together, and I will buy 
you something you can always wear till we meet 
again; then we will go to some good place and get 
@ little lunch ; and, afterwards, have a drive, come 
_ back here, dress, dine somewhere, and do a theatre 
after it. There, what do you say to that for a real 
happy day?” 
_ Dorothy said that it would be detzhtfal, and 

thought—well, with something like dismay, that she — 
should never get through it all. Yet the fear of once 
giving way and breaking down altogether kept her 
- up, and she went bravely through with that happy 
day, which afterwards lived in her mind as being — 
ame long spell of agony. 

And after that she wore upon her wrist Dick's 
trust gift to her—a golden bangle, with two words 
‘inscribed upon it in little diamonds, which caught 
the light and flashed their message at her a hundred 
mes e day—two simple words, “ Dinna Forget.” 











CHAPTER KL 
A NEW IDEA. 
ORD AYLMER was sitting alone in his library; 


smoking a cigarette, and wondering what 
answer Dick would bring him, when he thought 
proper to come again to give in his decision. 
- He was a handsome old man, not so very old in 
years, but aged in wickedness. A handsome man 
still, with aquiline features, a flushed face, and a 
goodly crop of white curly hair. Your first thought — 
an looking at him was, “ What a charming old gentle- 
man!” your second, “ What a pair of steely eyes!” 
Your third, “ What a Mephistopheles!” Yes, without — 
the shadow of a doubt, Lord Aylmer was a wicked 
- man, with a ‘bad heart filled to the brim, and running~ 
over with all manner of evil. 

_ They say, you know, that women novelists ou 
make their heroes all good, till they are as insipid as — 
the dummies in a tailor’s window; or else that they 
go to the other extreme, and make their villains 
such unmitigated villains that it is impossible to find — 
one single ray of virtue wherewith to redeem their 
character from its inky pall of utter blackness, . But 
let me tell you that if all the women-novelists who 
write stories’ in the English language were to con- 

_centrate their efforts upon the task of trying to depict _ 
_ the villainy of Lord Aylmer’s natural depravity, 


eb gy : 
a aot 
rye 








nN 
I am afraid that i in the Gad they ‘would ‘hayé} 06 cal “ 


in the aid of their masculine confréres to adequately 
complete the portrait. For the noble lord was all 
bad, thoroughly bad—what up in the North coun- 
trie they call “bad, core through.” Yet he had a 
delightful manner when he chose, and in early 
middle age had made a genuine love-match with a 
beautiful young woman at least sixteen years 
- younger than himself—a penniless as well asa beau- 
tiful young woman, upon whom he had lavished so 
much love and attention that within three months 
of his marriage his love had burnt itself out and was 
‘as dead as any dead voleano. A few weeks later, — 


Lord Aylmer practically separated himself from his _ 


wife, although they continued to share the same 
house and he appeared before the world as much 
as possible as if no breach had ever been opened 
between them. ; 
Not by Lord Aylmer’s desire, this—oh! no, but 
because her ladyship had never been so genuinely in 
love with him as he had been with her, and was, 
moreover, perfectly alive to the solid worldly advan- 
tages of being Lord Aylmer’s wife, the mistress of 
Aylmer’s Field and of the handsome town-house _ 
in Belgrave Square. . 
“ Of course, I know that there are others,” she said 
in reply to a dear friend, who thought it her duty to 
open this young wife’s eyes, “and, of course, I know 
that Aylmer wants to get rid of me; but I don’t 
mean to be got rid of, and I put up with the others 
because I think doing so the least of two evils. 


There is only one Lady Aylmer, and she isa strong — oe 


and healthy young woman, who means to be Lady 


en 


Be oe 4 NEW IDEA 107 : 
| GAyimect tor at least Atty years longer. Yes, I now 
my dear, all that you feel about it. I quite appre- — 
_ ciate your feeling towards me, Oh, yes,it was your — 
_duty to tell me, but Iam not going to cut myself out 
of all that makes life worth living, just to oblige a _ 
_ husband who has got tired of me in three months.” — 
To this decision Lady Aylmer had from that time — 
_ forward kept most rigidly. As far as her husband 
was concerned, nothing seemed to annoy her, and 
whenever she wished to do so and condescended to 
try to get her own way by means of a little flattery, 
_ghe generally succeeded ; and now that Lord Aylmer 
had got into the “sixties,” she was simply a stately, 
- even-tempered, iron-willed, and exceedingly healthy 
‘woman who looked as if she meant to live to be 
ninety. 

It was partly on the subject of his wie 8 extreme 
Dihincss that Lord Aylmer was thinking that 
morning as he smoked his cigarette and tried to 
assure himself that the twinges in his left foot were 
merely a sign of a coming shower and nothing in 
the world to do with gout at all. And just as a 
- worse twinge than usual made him wince and shiver, © 
the door opened gently and a man-servant made his 
appearance. 

“Mr, Aylmer is here, my lord,” he aaid. “« Will 
your lordship see him ?” 

“Certainly, of course,” exclaimed his lordship. 
“ Show him here at once.” 

The man retired, and in a minute or two returned 
with Dick, who said “Good morning” to his uncle, 
with an air of cheerful civility. 
_ “Wgh,” granted the old Lord, “ morning. Well?” — 





«Well, Sir,” said Dick, « < T have thought the matter 
over, and: although I have not and never have had 
any wish to go to India, I have decided that it will 


be best for me to accept the appointment you were 


good enough to get for me.” 

- «Qh!—er. I’m glad you've come to your senses 
at last,” said the old Lord, a shade more graciously. 
“Well, you had better go and see Barry Boynton 
about it—that will be the best. And then you'll 
have to get your affairs put in order, make le? will 
- and all that.” 


“JT have made my will,” said Dick, promptly, “al- — 


though it’s true I hadn’t very much to make it for,” 
“Ah! that’s good—those things ought always to 
be done before they are wanted. By-the-bye, Dick, 


are you hard up or anything of that kind? Doyou ~ 


want any money?” 


“No, Sir, thanks. I could do with a hundred or 


two, of course—who couldn’t? But I am not in debt > 


or anything of that sort.” 


The old Lord caressed his white pum ete and 
looked at his heir with a sort of comical wonder. — 
“Pon my soul,” he remarked, “I can’t tell how you 


do it.” 


“Eh?” said Dick, not understanding, and in fact 


not interested in his uncle’s thoughts. 


“Well, how you doit. Expensive regiment —flat FS 


in Palace Mansions—Riviera, and all the rest.” 
Dick shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Sir, I don’t 
owe a penny in the world, I give you my word.” 


“Ah! Mrs. Harris must be a young lady of very : 


moderate desires,” said Lord Aylmer, lighting another 
cigarette. ‘“ Have ome?” 





- 





¢ ¥ ; Jogrinny pid Poe EN Lay aoe ONE? Le Lt Te ttag | the vie, ee oe that) Ss Pet Pay ae eee Maa! og 
¢ yoy at na, iat a nt A ETN Cs Sahl ivin ss ; at LP he Ghat bk ee PY Ob yee 
SS ¥ ‘ fF : - : 

| | 7 2 





oS “No, thank you, Sir,” returned Dick. 
“And what will become of Mrs. Harris when you | 
a are gone to India, eh?” the old man asked, with a 
- great air of interest. 
“Well, Sir,” said Dick, “I always make it a rule 
never to talk about my friends’ private affaira, even 
when I happen to know them.” 
“You won ’t tell me.” Lord Aylmer chuckled. 

“Oh! very well, very well—never mind. I can take 
a hint as well as anybody.” 

When it suits your purpose,” Dick’s thoughts 
yan, as he watched the handsome wicked old face. 

_ Then he got up from his chair. “ If you don’t want 
me any longer, Sir, I will go and pay my respects to 
my lady. By-the-bye, I hope you are lees anxious 
about her than you were a short time ago.” 

_ Lord Aylmer jumped up in a fury and stamped his 
gouty foot hard upon the floor. “Damme,” he 
cried, “that woman is like an india-rubber ball, and 

as hard as nails into the bargain.” 

| «Then she is better,” said Dick, with an air of 
profound and anxious interest. 

“Better! Damme,” the old savage cried, “ she’s 

3 outrageously well, Sir. Damme, her healthiness i is 
positively aggressive.” 

“But that must be a great relief to your mind, 

Bir,” said Dick, with perfect gravity. 
“Relief!” the other echoed, then seemed to 
recollect himself a little. “Ah! yes, yes, of course— _ 
to be sure. Well, go and see her. I dare say you 

_ will find her in the boudoir.” 

Dick felt himself dismissed with a wave of the old 
 Lord’s hand, and being never very anxious to remain 









SS ET aE Oe Poi Pe Be eel (Fite PAT I Roa ts ates 7. mh SD atiel oh, Abt OPC Se Re Se ot thee Seed 
ne Rae Ra aera eee aR Et Levine * MAI EE NT Moe Bap SaE St Circle ay Nat aie eat ak bial eS, Pleat urine ares S, 3 h ee eh 
¥: ; > Yom pea See ASSN ‘ uae SR ted es ps cane NN ree ee 
‘ 14 Wich sap ee i ; 





210 ae 


in his presence, he betook himself away, ae went te 
find her ladyship. But Lady Aylmer was not in the 
house—had, in fact, been gone out some time before 
he reached it; so Dick jumped into a cab and went 
back to Palace Mansions to Dorothy, who met him 
with a new idea. 

“Dick darling,” dhe said, “I know that you are 
worrying about me, and what I shall do when you 
are gone, and I have thought of something.” 

“Yes. Have you thought that, after all, it would 
be safe for you to go right out and risk everything?” — 
_ “No, because you do not go till September, and 
| by then I shall have got very near to the time. No, — 
it is not that at all; but you will have leave until 
you sail, won't you : os 

66 Yea.” 

“Then might we not go to the sea fora month? — 
I am pining for a breath of sea air, and it will hg ie 
good for you too.” | 

“That is easy enough. Where shall we pl 
Tenby—or would ze rather be nearer to Grave- 
leigh ?” i 

“We could not go to any of the places near 
Graveleigh, Dick—I should be meeting People 
there.” i: 

“Yes; but we cae go to Overstrand or Cromer, | 
or go down to one of the little quiet places near 
Ramsgate. Why, if you like, we might even go to 
Ramagate or Margate itself.” : 

“T don’t in the least care where,” Dorothy replied, eee 
“ But what I wanted to say is this—you remember 
my cousin, Esther Brand ? ” | 

“I’ve heard you speak ofher” = = | 


Ree or Net. 








st 


ia 


4 Well, when you are gone, would you let me 


“write to her and ask her to come and stay with me 


till I am ready to come after you? She is young and 


kind, and I am very fond of her, and altogether i 


would be very different for me than if I had nobody : 
- except Barbara.” 


“My dearest, you shall do exactly as you think 


best about that,” Dick said, without hesitation. “It 
1g a good idea, and if she is nice and won't worry you 
about being married in this way 





“She won't know, dear,” Dorothy cried. “TI shall 
show her my marriage-lines, and say that you are gone 


and that I am going to join you as soon as I can.” 


“She will be sure to ask my regiment. He 

“Not at all. Besides, you are going out to an 
appointment, are you not ?” 

“Yes, true, Well, then, do as you think best 
about it,” he said. “Of course, I shall be a great 
Geal easier in my mind, and then she will be able to 
see you off and all that. Oh! yes, it will be @ very 
good thing in every way.” 

Dorothy clapped her hands together and laughed 
quite joyously. “Oh! Dick dear,” she cried, “I’m 
co glad you don’t mind—I feel quite brave about 


sonW DE, en m ne 


being left now. I do wish, though, that you could | 


see Esther. She is so tall and strong, very handsome, 
smooth dark hair and great dark eyes—quite a girl 
who ought to be called Esther or Olive. And then 
he has always been rich, and for five years she has 


been absolutely her own mistress, and has travelled y 


about everywhere.” 


“Won't she think it odd that you have neveg 
written to her all this time ? ” 


wey 








«TJ don't think so. "Esther isnot a gin who thanks pe 


you for letters unless you have something special te 
Dick put his arm round his little wife’s waist. “And 
you have something very, very special to tell her, 
haven’t you?” he said tenderly, then cried with an 
uncontrollable burst of anguish, “Oh! my love, my 
_ love, you don’t know—you will never know what it 
will cost me to go away and leave you ace now, 

_ when you will want me most of all.” 

“ Never mind, Dick,” she said bravely—* Ps em not ; 
afraid.” 

Looking at her, he saw that she spoke the ‘rath 7 
and only the truth—her eyes met his, clear and true, 
and the smile which played about her sweet mouth 
was not marred by any expression of the agony which | 


ehe had suffered during the few previous days. A 


week ago she had been more Dick’s sweetheart than 
his wife; now she was not only his wife, but had also — 
in her eyes the proud light of motherhoed—“ Filled — 
was her soul with love, and the dawn of an opening 
heaven” 








. _ CHAPTER XI 


VHERE is no1 eed for me to tell of the month which 
Dick and his wife passed together at a secluded 


little watering place on the Norfolk coast, nor of the 


 geramble which Dick had at the lust to get ready for 


_ the appointed day of sailing for the shining East. 


It is enough to say that after an agonised parting, 


he tore himself away, and Dorothy found herself left 
alone in the pretty flat, face to face with the sorest 


a trial of her life. 


A week before she had written to her cousin, 


Esther Brand, but she had had no reply. That had 


not surprised her much, for Esther was a restless 
soul, never so happy as when moving about from 


place to place. Apart from that, London is scarcely 


the place to look for rich and idle people in 


September, and Dorothy had addressed her letter to 


her cousin’s bankers, knowing that it would be the 


_ gurest and probably the quickest way of finding ber. 
But when Dick was gone, Dorothy began to get, ~ 


very anxious for a letter from Esther, to watch for 
the post, and to wonder impatiently what Esther . 
could possibly have done with herself and whether 
- ghe had got her letter or not. But for several days 





there waz still silence, and at last, just when Dorothy 


a — beginning to despair, it came. 


‘114 ; 2 “pOA yoRGEt, 

“ Here is your letter, Mae Dorothy,” cried Bashar 
hurrying into the room with it. 

‘Qh, Barbara!” Dorothy cried excitedly. Pie 

In a moment she had torn it open and was reading 
it aloud to Barbara. “Oh, it is from Russia. Fancy 
Miss Brand being in Russia, Barbara, and she says :— 


‘“‘My VERY DEAR LITTLE DoROTHY,—So you are 
married! I can hardly believe it—indeed, since 
having your letter this morning, I have been saying 
to myself over and over again, ‘Dorothy Strode is 


married—little Dorothy has got married,’ and still J 


do not in the least realise it. So you are very happy, 


of course, and you are going to have a baby—that in _ 


almost an ‘of course’ also. And your husband has 
got a good appointment in India which he does not 
dare to refuse. That looks like bread-and-cheese 
and kisses, my dear little cousin. However, not 
that money makes any real difference to one’s hap- 


_piness, and so long as you love him and he loves 


you nothing else matters, money least of all. But 


why, my dear, have you waited so long before you 


told me of your new ties? I have wondered so 
often where you were and what had become of you, 
and about four months ago I wrote to the old house 


and had your letter returned by a horrid young man, ~ 
David Stevenson, whom I disliked always beyond. 


measure. He informed me that you had left imme- 


_ diately after dear Auntie’s death, and that he did not — 


know your present address. I felt a little anxious 
about you, but eminently relieved to find that you 
were evidently not going to marry that detestable 


young man, who is, | bave no doubt, all that is good 


_ Se 





ian 
ae 





have never liked. 


“Well, my dear child, you ‘must let me be god- . 


mother to the baby when it comes, that I may spend 


eRe Fan SIN ON ITC OR SR Ne ae 
Aloud, | yc Ue is a “ate 


and estimable aad affluent, but whom, « os 7 said, 1 


as much money over its coral and bells asI should _ 


_ have done over a wedding-gift to you. As for 


coming to you—my darling child, of course I shall 
come straight back, and help Barbara to make up to 


you for the temporary loss of your spouse. I gather 


from your letter that he is all that is good and kind 
and brave, to say nothing of being handsome and 
loving and true—you lucky little girl! 

“Expect me when you see me, dear, which will be 
as soon as I can possibly get myself to London. If 
I were on the other side of the frontier, I could pretty 
nearly fix both day and time. As it is, 1 can only 
say that I will lose no time in being with you, and 


I will stick to you till I see you safe on board the — 

P. and O. steamer. | 
' “My love to Barbara—how she and I will yarn 
together over the old place and the old aye l—and 


much love to you, dear little woman. 
“From your always affectionate 
| “ ESTHER.” 


This letter in itselt was enough to put Dorothy — 
- into the wildest and gayest of spirits, and Barbara 
was almost as much delighted; for, truth to tell, the 


old servant had looked forward with no little dismay 
to the prospect of supporting her loved young mis- 
tress through her hour of loneliness and trial, and 
was therefore greatly relieved to find that the respon- 


sibilities of the situation would fell upon the strong : 








te BINNA FORGET, 


did epehl aodlien be tie Esther Brand instoud | 


of lying upon her own weaker ones. 


“Tt is so good and sweet and dear of Esther,” 7 


Dorothy repeated, over and over again. “Just like 


her to throw everything else aside on the chance of 


being able to do a good turn to some one in need. 
Now I don’t feel half so nervous as I did.” 


“Nor I,” echoed Barbara, speaking out of her 


very heart; then she added with a significant smile, 


“Miss Esther never could abide David Stevenson— 


neither could I.” Se oe ee 
Dorothy could not help laughing. “Ah! I think 
- you were all just a little hard on David. I didn’t 
want to be Mrs. David, it is true. But apart from 


that, I don’t see that there was so much amiss ke 
him.” 


“perhaps not. But for all that, Miss Dorothy—Ma’am, 


I should say—David Stevenson was a mean boy, and - 


I never could abide meanness in man, women, nor 
child.” 
“He was most generous to me,” said Dorothy, with 
a sigh. 
Yes, to serve his own ends,” anid Barbara 
sharply. “You may take such generosity as that 


for me. Not that I was speaking of that, Ma’am, for — 
I wasn't, but of the time when David was a boy—a — 


horrid boy, who thought nothing of stealing the 


it.” 


“ Oh, Barbara! Barbara! “ cried Dorothy, “ you've — : 
got hold of a wrong story. Why,1know-that once — 


- when David stole some of Auntie’s apples, and young 


“H’m!” remarked Barbara, with another sniff, 


best apples and letting another take the blame of He 












saeupes 


“Pom Merriman got the blenie, Dovid came » and told nn . 


: Auntie himself.” : 
“ Yes; and for why?” Jecianien Bicbass. with un- 
: on wining sternness, “Because I happened to | 

have caught the young limb at it and collared him 


PF RTT ORNS Teas oe ONE Ca tg Ae 


_ before he could get away. ‘You are stealing Mise — 
__ Dimedale’s apples, David Stevenson,’ I said, laying 


hold of him sudden-like; ‘and you stole them other 
_ apples that Tom Merriman has been sacked for. 
‘ And what’s that to you, you old sneak?’ he asked. 
Sn eak or no sneak,’ said I, ‘you'll turn out your 


oe pockets to me, my fine gentleman; and you'll go 


straight up to the house and you'll tell Miss Dims- 
dale that it was you stole the apples last week, and 
_ then you'll go and ask Tom Merriman’s pardon for — 
having let him lie under your fault.’ ‘That I shan’t,’ 
says he. ‘Then,’ says I, ‘I just walks you nght off to 


_ Miss Dimsdale, and she'll see you with your pocketa — 


full, red-handed as you are. No,’ says I, ‘it’s no — 
use to struggle. I’ve got you safe by the arms, and 
so I mean to keep you, whether you like it or not. 
And if once Miss Dimsdale knows the truth, do you 


"know what she'll do, David Stevenson?’ says I. 


‘No,’ says he, sulkily. ‘What?’ ‘She'll never stop 


to think that you're David Stevenson of Holroyd,’ ~~ | 
I says, ‘but she'll just hand you over to the 


- eonstable at once, and I don’t think, my young | 


- gentleman,’ I adds, ‘that Tom Merriman having: 
_ got the sack to fill your inside with ill-gotten goods 
‘1 help you with the Bench in the very least.’ ” 

“ Well, so I suppose he gave in,” said Dorothy, 
_ who was deeply interested. : 
“Well, of course, he had to.” Shield Barbary: 





LEDS sets © Sea) es caf enr om aT A Whee Pa are ee Tees SOU ARC i : Fe ‘ HR SUNN Haas 
ea a GET De NTR URI Rar VT ta eS CE ee ORIEN Be x Bag VE ET SERN EN CR SE a Pee SOO ter vee? Cee cheney Re eae Fe sa 
PENT its ate ND HD GH NG Sr agro MR Rc ama Ey Rl AEE PPB Lee AOR gol thee OES ee apse SP Se SSI SONY Sa YEE ON MS CO ne id in NR Ee Ger RNA CON Oty Oe 


ee ies 


pA ines ak. es 
Re etn se 
sh Mes hab 


ne 








he | " DINNA FORGET, 


_ with practical plainness, “but all fhe same, “hoes never 
_ forgave me for having been the one to get the better 
of him, and never forgot it, not to the very last day 
we were at the Hall. Ah! Miss Dorothy, darling, if 
you had thought proper to marry David Stevenson, 
you would have had to do without me, He never 
would have had me about him, and I wouldn’t have 
taken service under his roof—no, not to save myself 
from ending my days in the workhouse.” 
“Barbara, Barbara,” cried aes ‘chiding 
“not for me?” | 
“ Well, if you had put itin that way, Mies Dorothy, 
you might have got over. er ae old woman 
answered. ? 
- But stay! I think Iou ght to say here that althouse 
I have called her old in many parts of this story, _ 
Barbara was not, and could not reasonably be called 
an old woman in the common acceptation of the 
word. She was a year or so over fifty, and a very 
_atrong, hale woman at that, and at this time to 
Dorothy she was as a very rook and tower of 
strength. — 
Well, by virtue of the letter ‘yon Esther Brand an 
in the joy of expectation at her coming, Dorothy 
passed that day with quite a light heart, and even 
sat down to the little piano and sang one or two of 
the songs that Dick liked best. And then she went 
to bed and slept, leaving the door open between her _ 
room and Barbara’s for company, and she dreamed, _ 
as she always did, about Dick. : 
- Nor was it a pleasant dream. She eaw Dick on 
beard of a large steamer, wearing white clothes and 
_ esailor hat, looking very bronzed and happy. He 











— leaning over the side of the ship, with a cigarette 





im his mouth, just as she had seen him many a time, 

_ and by his side there stood a beautiful lady—not a 
girl like Dorothy herself, but a beautiful woman of 
about thirty years old, such a woman as Dorothy 
fancied her old friend at home, Lady Jane Sturt, 
might have been at that age. They seemed to be 
talking earnestly together, and after a time—such a — 
Jong time it seemed in her dream—Dick took one of 
the lady’s hands and raised it to his lips; then she 
_ laughed and said something, and Dick caught her to 
_ him and kissed her on the lips) Immediately after- 
wards, while: Dorothy with frozen lips was gazing 
at them, Dick turned his head and looked her — 
fall in the eyes with the glance of an miter 
stranger. : 

With a ehriek, Dorothy awoke—the sun was 
streaming in at the sides of the window-blinds, and» 
_ Barbara was just coming through the doorway with 
a little tray bearing Dorothy's early cup of tea. 

“Did I scream, Barbara?” Dorothy gasped. | 

«A bit of a cry. What ailed you, Ma'am?” Barbara 
asked, : 
“Oh! I was so ighieied--I had such a horrid 
dream about the master. I thought——” 

But Dorothy did not complete the sentence, for 
Barbara put out her hand with a horrified look. 
« Nay, now, Miss Dorothy, don’t tell it, Whatever you 
do, don’t tell me.” 

“But why?” cried Dorothy, open-eyed. 

“You should never tell a dream before noon, 
Miss Dorothy,” returned Barbara portentously. 

- ©Qb{” exclaimed Dorothy, “isn’t it lucky?” She 


ALONE, — as 








s v ‘ ~ be Tak Ox pee a Piet ¥ 
Path 
120 3 Bona voRamt, 
: 5 


on 


knew that Barbara was Z a great believer in peer and 
“ gigns and omens. | 

“It’s fatal,” answered Barbara planet, whokiat 
Dorothy burst out laughing and the worst feelings of 
dread with which she had awakened passed away. 

«J think,” she said after breakfast, when Barbara 
was clearing the table—“ that I shall put on my hat 
and go up to the High Street—I cannot finish thia 
till I get some more lace; ” then she held itup and 
showed it off to Barbara. “Ian’t it sweet?” she — 
exclaimed with intense satisfaction. 

“It’s lovely,” returned Barbara, who was over- 
joyed at the prospect of a baby. “Then do you — 
wish me to go with you, Ma‘am, or will you go 
alone?” 

“Do you want to go?” Dorothy asked. . | 

“Well, Ma’am, to be honest, I don’t. I want to — 
turn out the room for Miss Esther. You see, she may 
come nearly as fast as her letter, and I shouldn’t like 
to put her into a dirty room,” 

“It can’t be dirty, Barbara,” cried Dorothy, laugh- 
ing, “ because nobody has ever slept in it.” | 

“ Well, Ma’am,” Barbara retorted, “I can’t gay 
that 1 know a dirtier person than Mr, Nobody—on 
the whole.” 

Dorothy laughed. . “ Well, then you evidently have 
a lot to do and I would just as soon go alone. So I 
will go soon, before I get tired or the day gets hot ;” 
for although September was half over, the weather | 
just then was most sultry and trying to those not i in 
the best of health. 

_ She was soon ready, and went into the cosy little 
kitchen to ask Barbara if there was anything that 





“Do I look all right?” Dorothy asked, taming a < 


| herself about, | 


“Yes, you look very sweet this morning, Miss — 


Dorothy,” said Barbara. “I wish the master could _ : 


see you this minute.” 
“So do I,” echoed Dorothy seco iAty, e Well, 


he will see me soon enough, soon enough. Good-- 


bye, Barbara.” 


Barbara followed her to the door and Gratehed ne , 


out into the street, and truly, as she had said, her 
young mistress was looking very bonny that day. On 
her fair hair, loosely arranged yet not untidy-looking 


she had a small straw bonnet trimmed with ribbon 


and a cluster of gloire de Dijon roses. Over her 


pretty blue cotton gown she wore a long dust-cloak 


one person thought so as she passed up the street, : 


of some thin and light-toned material. She also wore 


tan-coloured shoes and Suéde gloves of about the 


same tone, and she carried a large white cotton 


parasol to shield her from the sun. 


It was a very simple and cheap toilette, but it waa 
fresh and dainty-looking, and Dorothy looked bright 
and lovable and a little lady from the crown of her 
bonnet to the tips of her shoes; indeed, more than 


and the old General, who was out for his usual morn- 


ing trot, stopped in his walk, and wheeling round 


stoua to look after her till she had turned the corner 


- and was out of sight, when he went on with his self- 


imposed sentry-go, wishing with all his heart he was 
forty years younger. : 


Meantime Dorothy went serenely on her way, 
q 


3 it u Riders es eRe te 
5 ; : : EG, Art fee 2 ite 
; 7 Tae : ; Ne Baan Gaur ONT Ts 
ony : i 4 a A a K ie y 
ALONE, bi 1 L ei 


ee as wanted, but the did not NORE want anything 3 Be 
 atall, : e 


ty pa roraer, =~ 


reached the shop tor which she was bound iia thera 
made her purchases, all small enough for her to bring 
them away in a neat little parcel in her unoccupied — 


hand. And then, just as she stepped off the door- 


step of the shop on to the pavement, she suddenly 
found herself face to face with David Stevenson. 

If it had been possible, she would have retreated 
back into the shop; but it was too late for that. 
David Stevenson had already uttered an exclamation — 
of surprise,and was standing close in front of her, 
holding out both his hands to her. 

Now, if there was one person in all the wide world 
whom Dorothy would rather not have seen just 
then, that person was David Stevenson. I think she 
looked all the dismay which she felt, and that she 
felt all and perhaps more than the dismay which she 
looked. 

“Oh! is that you?” she gasped. a 

David let his hands, with their glad welcome, al 
instantly. 

_. “You're not very glad to see me, Dorothy,” he 
gaid, in quiet but bitter reproach. 

“J—that is, you startled me,” she returned, in a 
wild endeavour to put off any questions he might 
_ think proper to ask of her. 

_ “Evidently,” he said dryly, “and you want to get 
gid of me, eh?” | 
“Oh, not at all,” biting her lip and wishing that 
she could sink into the ground or dissolve into thin 
air, anywhere out of the way of his hard and steely- 
blue eyes, which seemed to look her through and 
_ through, and to know in a moment all the secrets iy 

her life, 


re 

2 
AY 
es 
: 


ee 
“Wor Ab, that is better. ‘Then, since you don't. 


want to get rid of me all in a hurry, perhaps you — : 


will let me walk a little way with you. May I?” 


“Oh yes, certainly,” said sls giving herself ; 
up for lost at once. es 


“Do you live near here?” he wked as ane hened 


towards Palace Mansions. 


At that moment there was a slight block on the 
pavement of-the always busy street, and just as 
David spoke, Dorothy perceived that the sweet-faced 
lady who lived on tke floor above her, was also 


blocked, and stood for a moment or so face to face 


with her. Undoubtedly she had heard David’s ques- 


tion just as Dorothy had done, and undoubtedly | 
Dorothy had never seen her eyes so cold or her lips 
go austerely shut before. In her distress and annoy- 


ance at being thus apparently caught, Dorothy 
blushed a vivid guilty crimson—a fact upon which 
the sweet-faced lady put the usual construction to 
which all highly moral persons seem to jump at once 
in a moment of doubt—that is, the ry worst con- 
struction possible, 

“Can you give me no news from home, then?” 
Dorothy asked, in a desperate voice raised far above 
her usual tones. 

David looked down at her in surprise—an iecinee 
tary action which was not lost upon the lady who was 
atill unable to pass on. 

“News?” herepeated. “ Why, off courselIcan. I 


have so much news to tell you that IT hardly know 


where to begin. Let me see—Lady Jane is back, of 
course.” 
Dorothy turned ker head in time to see that the 


¥: a 
“Sr Sd TE TEM ee nhs by f AKC mt afi : ‘ : 
SO ROSE TS ee ge Te Pn rg ee NEE ORE TNS ACRE BEL al AL a Ur Se i ey a ORT Een OR OPS ed GEE EN ORSRN 





a lady had passed on and was out of pi se betore a 
- David had begun his news. 


There, just like David’s stupidity to be too leek 
Why, she wondered irritably, could he not have hap- 
pened to say something which would have let that 
woman upstairs know that they had known each 
other all their lives? But no, David had always 
blundered whenever and wherever she was concerned, 
and she supposed that he always would. Her 


interest in the home news was gone, lost in the — ; 


depths of her annoyance, but* she listened patiently 
till he had exhausted that topic, till she had heard 

who was married and who was dead, of a fire in such 
a one’s rick-yard, and of a barn belonging to another 
which had been struck by lightning. 

Then he told her how he had improved the Hall— . 
her perfect old home, which in her mind needed ime 
provement of no kind—how he had put a smart 
capable gardener in to bring the place into real good 
condition—— 

“ And old Isaac?” said Dorothy, fiercely. | 

“Qh, he is still about—I shouldn’t turn any old 
servant of yours off, you know. There are plenty of 
odd jobs for him about the place.” 

“ What sort of odd jobs?” demanded Dorothy, re 
“Oh, weeding and toddling about picking up 
stones and—and doing odd jobs generally,” answered 
David, who was beginning to get rather uncome - 


fortable under the fire in her truthful eyes and the . 


terrible directness of her questions, 
“Tn fact, you have made Isaac underling, labourer. 
_ glavey to your grand new gardener, ia that it?” she | 
Bayt - 3 . : “7 © : 











: «0b, come now,” Me eaat bat Dorothy sod ‘ i. - 


~atill in the road and confronted bim angrily. 
“Ts it so or not? ” she asked. 


“Well, something like that,” he admitted, un- 


| willingly. 


“Ts it absolutely so or not?” Dorothy asked | 


again. 





of a hand at gardening 
“He was good enough for us,” sighed Dorothy, in 
heart-broken voice. 
“Yes; but indeed he really was past his work, or 


a should never have thought of displacing him7 


And if it hadn’t been for you tat he was a good 
many. years your Sophie iaea 
“Nearly forty years,” put in Dorothy. © 
“Well, of course, if it hadn’t been for that q 





should just have replaced him without troubling any 
further about him. As it was, I made a place for 


him, and I give him ten shillings a week for what I 
could get better done by a boy for six.” 
« And the cottage? ” asked she. 


“Qh, well, of course, the cottage goes with the situa- 


tion,” answered David, who was getting rather sulky. 


There was a moment's silence; then Dorothy sud- — 


_ denly stopped and turned to face him. “David,” 
she flashed out, “you may be a good farmer, but 
you are a hard man, a hard man, One of these days 


you'll come to be—but, there, what is the good of — 
talking to you? If long and faithful service wil} — 


‘not touch your heart, what else will?” 


os 





ieee x 


FEIT Naira gO 
EE OF ARS eto oa 


“Well, ’'m afraid it ia,” said David, with a great 
air of making a clean breast of the whole matter, 
“You see, Dorothy, the oe: Fotlow never was much — 





a 16 wae INNA, FORGET. | | 
“There is one thing which will sivaes: have 


ase aA aS Anne gan A UNEASE TUOMAS wasnt tes Gated Aen Cas Sh ny NAN Acca SSAC Aa AUN Sh ay RM Oy: 
. ay ng le Tyee ate Octo, oe 


: eee oS 


power to touch my heart,” he said eagerly. - Shall 
I tell you what ?” | 3 
“No,” said Dorothy, wearily. “ «] probably should 
not believe you. If forty years would not do it, 
nothing else could.” 
As she spoke she turned down the street which led 


to Palace Mansions, for she saw that it was hopeless _ 


now to try to prevent his finding out where she 
lived; and, indeed, now that Dick was safely out of 
_ the country she did not think that it mattered much. 
David, for his part, took advantage of the quiet side 
street, and spoke out what was in his mind. 


_ “Dorothy,” he said, “ come back to the Hall, andI 


will show you whether I am a hard man or not; 

only come back and let us forget the past, nobody 
need know anything. I will never remind you of it. 
Only come back, my dear, and everything shall be 
as you wish—as you direct. I'll send the new gar- 
-dener to Holroyd, and Isaac shall be head-gardener 
at the Hall, with a couple of men under him to do the 


work. Does that sound like being hard, Dorothy?” . 
“Yes,” said Dorothy, coldly—“ hardest of all, be- — 


cause you would not hesitate to buy me, body and 
soul, through my compassion and pity for those poor 
unfortunate ones, who cannot help themselves, and 
cannot fight against the hard power which your 
money and your strength gives ) you,” | ! 

“Qh! Dorothy, it is not so,” he cried. “I only 


ask you to come back because I love you and I 
want you. The old place wants you, and I hunger — 


for you. Besides, I cannot bear to see you as you 


look now—tired and worn, and ten years older than — 





wa? a aa 





SS Gren you. tamed your ack’ on x all’ your old ate : 
for the wake of a fellow who has brought you: to ed 


this,” | 
“To what?” Dorothy cried, her eyes opening wide _ 
and her tones expressing such astonishment that 


David fairly quailed before her look. 


“To a ghost of your old self,” he answered curtly, 
But it was all of no use. Dorothy could be curt 
too, on occasions, and she was so then. | 

“Tt seems to me that you are making mistake: es all | 


round, David,” she said coldly. “I am not very well, 


and the heat has tried me—but I am not what you © 


take me for. I have been, thank God for it, a 


blessedly happy wife for many months. I will wish 
you good-morning, David.” | 
She turned away without giving him time to uy 


_@ word, and went as quickly as was possible towards 


her home, and went in without turning her head to 
see what had become of him. As for David Steven- — 
son, he simply stood rooted to the spot where she 
had left him, until she disappeared from his sight ; 
then he took a step or two as if to follow her, but 
changed his mind and retraced his steps, with a face \ 
like a thunder-cloud. 

‘He was so occupied with his own thoughts and 


his own disappointment that he never noticed a 


amart victoria and pair which was drawn up just 
within the corner of the quiet street, but its occu- 


pant, an old white-haired gentleman, had noticed 


him, and took keen stock of him as he passed. David 


__ Btevenson would have been considerably surprised _ 


if he could have heard the order which the same old — 


_ gentleman gave to his coachman just after he had 


eee ae “pone FORGET, . 


swung fas. Follow that gentleman clonly 5 
Don’t lose sight of him.” — 

Yes, m’ lord,” said the servant, and hopped ug 
gato the box, giving the order to the coachman. 

« All right,” murmured that dignitary in reply; 
then added in a lower voice still, “ What's the old 
codger up to now, I wonder?” 

“ Uncommon pretty girl,” answered Charles, in an 
equally low tone. “ We've been after her some time.” 

“Who is she?” ieee 

| Mrs. ’Arris. Lives in Palaee Mansions,” with a 
wink. 3 

‘“H’m! I wishes her joy of 4 ‘im,” said the coachman, ‘ 





screwing his face up into a thousand Sis eagese tee 


wrinkles. 

“Me too,” said the footman, sniggering, “ Hi, 
he’s going into the Park;” whereat the coachman 
turied his horses in at Prince’s Gate also, and 
they drove in abreast of David Stevenson, who was 
looking no more at peace with the world or with 
himself than he had been when he tumed into the 
High Street, out of the quiet road in which Palace 
Mansions may be found. 

“Still faithful to Master Dick, or else the new- 
eomer not attractive enough,” thought Lord Aylmer 


with a sneer, as he gave a sharp, keav look at the tall — 


young man’s lowering face 








aah XIIL 
- HOPE DF AD. 


THINK that David Stevenson had never been in 

such a towering rage in his life as when he turned 
in at the Park Gates and went swinging along in the - 
- direction of the Achilles. For during those few 
moments when he watched her after she left him and 
before she disappeared into Palace Mansions, he had 


realised that she had gone from him for ever, He 


re@ised that whether she was actually married or 
not, she was not for him, and he had suddenly 
become aware, almost without knowing why, that 
there was a cause for her altered looks, a cause which 
would be for ever a bar to the fond hopes which he 
had cherished during nearly all his life, certainly ever 
since Dorothy_as Le wee, toddling, soft-eyed child had 
come, fatherless and motherless, to be the light and 
life of the old Hall and the very joy of Miss Dims- | 
dale’s lonely hearth. 

$o that fellow had got round her after all_hie 


_ bitter thoughts ran, as he strode along—and all the 








worship and devotion of his life had been flung aside 
ag nought for the sake of a specious tongue and a 
swag: .ng army sort of manner. 


As a matter of fact, Dick had not the very smallest oe 


shade of a swagger about him, but David Stevenson 


_-was the kind of man who invariably judges everyman __ 


eee eed 


a 


Paty Se ee REN COE Na Fry UNS PET NE BEE CASTOR MOT ANE Seok EUR cer SI AA CA aL eo ET CO ek See ne es ee 


10” DINNA FORGET. 


by a type, and to him an army man was a man whe 


turned his toes out a good deal more than was neces- — 


sary and said “haw” between every three words he 
spoke. That the man who had stolen Dorothy’s love 
from him did neither of these things made no differ- 
ence to David’s conception of him. He had stolen 
Dorothy from him, and that was enough to make 
David endow him in his own mind with all the most. 
hateful attributes of his detestable class. 

Nor did he even stop to consider that he was dis- 
tinctly unjust in crediting Harris with stealing 
Dorothy’s love from him. For it is impossible to 
steal from any man what that man had never had to 
lose, and most em@phatically he had never possessed — 
even one little tiny corner of Dorothy Strode’s heart; 
to be plain, Dorothy had always detested him. 

For an hour or more David strode about the Park 


till the storm of fury which possessed him had some- 


what calmed down, and always the smart victoria with 
its pair of high-stepping, fiery horses and its pair of 
wooden-faced, imperturbable servants in their white 
and crimson liveries dogged his steps and kept him 
fairly in sight; and at last David noticed them. ~ 
“Damn that supercilious old brute,” he muttered, 
as they passed him for the twentieth time; then. he 
stood at the railings a minute or so and thought how 
slow it was—wondered how men and women could 
bear to crawl up and down in line, fretting their fine 
horses into a fever and never getting beyond a foot’s 
pace. 

He tur-3d away trom the Row into a side path, 
but the next moment he saw that the smart viewers 
had turned into font road algo, - 





: « Confound him, he must be watching me,” he 


: thought irritably, “and yet what should he want to “ 2 


watch me for? Oh, hang it, Pll go home!” 


Without a moment's hesitation, he turned his steps _ 


: towards Apsley House and made his way out at the 


| 2 big gates, where he hailed a cab and gave the man 


the address of his hotel, and forgot about the white-. - 
_ haired old gentleman in the smart victoria. A 

But the victoria was there, nevertheless, Showing 
immediately behind the modest cab; and when 


: - David got out and went into the Grand Hotel, Lord 


Aylmer called to the footman— 

“Charles, 1 want you to take a message, Barker, 
atop.” 

Barker. pulled up the Koreéa beside the bral 
pavement, and Charles got down to hear his — 
lord’s orders. 

“Go into the Grand and find out that ete: 8 
name—don’t mention mine,” | 

“Yes, m’ lord,” said Charles. . 

Now, Charles happened to be an ingenious youth 
who was not troubled with any nice scruples about 
his honour, and believed that the easiest way was in- 
variably the best way. He therefore, secure in the 
halo which his smart white and crimson livery was 
enough to cast around him, went into the hotel and 
addressed himself to the stately house-porter of the 
establishment. 

“JT gay, porter,” said he, “my master, the Dook of 
‘Middlesex, wawnts to know the name of a gentleman 
just come in—came in a ’ansom—tall, fairish chap, 
looku like a country gentleman.” 

“D’yer mean that one?” asked the house-porter, | 









3 ee 
ba BP air 


188 : DINNA FORGET, soe mee < 


taking Charles to a glass dene leading to the ending Le 


room and nointing out David. 
“Yes, that’s the one,” Charles saewaee : 
«Oh, yes; that’s Mr. David Stevenson, of Holroyd “ 
said the house-porter. 
And where’s Holroyd?” : 
« A mile ortwo from Harwich,” answered the other 
«At least, [heard him say so last night. His post- 
town is Harwich.” 


“Ah! yes—thanks. The Dook fancied he- knoo 


him, but J fancy he was mistook, Good day to you, ze 


porter.” 
“Good day to you, my fine sockiphesannt® re~ 


turned the big house-porter, contemptuously; but 


Charles had already reached the door and was going 
back, serene in the power of his own impudence, to 


impart the information which he had gathered, to his ~ 


~ master, 





RSE 


“The gentleman’s name is Stevenson, my lord,” — 
he said. “Mr. David Stevenson, of Holroyd, 


Harwich.” 


« Ah, yes, ” and then the old savage pulled ont his 
note-book and jotted the name down without m 


comment. ‘“ How did you find out?” : 
“T said my master, the Dook of Middlesex, wished 


to know, as he fancied he knoo the gentleman, C 


Charles answered promptly. 


Lord Aylmer burst a ale “Ah! sagt clever : 


—very clever. Home.” 
“ Yes, m’ lord,” said Charles. 


Lord Aylmer fanghed more than once onthe? way | 


home, he was so stensely amused at the inventive 


genius displayed by Charles, whom he had not 








‘worn pmd. 18 


: : before credited: with much. sherane of that kind, 
He was a man who never took the trouble to 


make subterfuges to his servants: if he wanted a bit 
of information, he simply told one of them to get it, 
without caring what means were taken or giving any 


reason for wanting it. For instance, he would never 


say, “Go and find out who that gentleman is,” and 
add, as ninety-nine people out of a hundred would 
do, “I think I know him”—no, he never troubled 


| to do that: it was simply after the manner of the 


Centurion, “Go and find out who that is.” | 
But he was greatly tickled by Charles’ remarks, © 
and more than once on the way home repeated to 
himself with a chuckle, “Dook of Middlesex! I 
must encourage Charles a little. ‘Pon my soul, 
uncommonly neat—Dook of Middlesex |” 


_ Meantime I must confess that Dorothy had gone 


home in what Barbara was accustomed to call “a 
boiling passion.” Barbara happened to be coming 
across the little hall when she let herself in at the 
front door. “Miss Dorothy—my dear, what is it?” 
the old servant cried, her heart jumping fairly into 
her mouth as a dreadful idea flashed into her mind 
_ that her young mistress’s hour was come. 
“Barbara,” said Dorothy, in a voice shaking with 
_ passion, “I take back everything that I have ever 
said in defence of David Stevenson—every word.” 
‘‘ What ! have youseen him?” cried Barbara. 
“TI used to feel,” Dorothy went on, in the same 
trembling tones, and without taking the smallest 


notice of Barbara’s question, “very sorry that I 





~_ eould never fall in with Auntie’s wishes concerning 
him, And then after Auntie got so fond of my 


184 . DINNA FORGET. ee ee 


Dick, I wasn’t sorry on Auntie’s account any longer, 
but I was sorry for David, because I thought 
circumstances had been a little hard for him, so I 


have stood up for him with all of you. But you were 





all right, and I take back now every red that ever 


I have said in his favour.” 


Barbara drew her into the pretty drawing-room. 


“Sit down, my dear young mistress,” she said os 


tenderly, “and tell me all about it.” 
So Dorothy sat down on the sofa and told Barhars 
everything about her meeting with David—what he 


had said and what she had said; what he had looked — 
and what she had felé; how he bad turned old Isaac __ 
out of his place and had put a grand new-fangled — 
gardener to be Isaac’s master at the Hall; and finally, — 


how he had asked her to go back and the past 


would be forgotten, and he had insinuated—nay, had 


told her plainly—but no, Dorothy’s composure did Me 


not hold out long enough for her to tell that part of 


her story, for when she reached that point she gave 


way and broke down into violent sobbing. 
Barbara sat down beside her and took her into 


her arms, #0 that she might lay her head upon the — 


old servant's ample breast and cry her heart-ache 
away. | | 
“Miss Dorothy dear,” she said presently, curiosity 
getting the best of her at last, “ did David Stevenson 
dare to tell you that you wasn’t married?” _ | 
“Not in so many words, Barbara,” 
answered, sitting up now and drying her flushed face, 


“but he asked me to go back and marry him,” with 


unutterable contempt, “and he would show me 


what love meant—he that turned my old friend out 


| ot hie ome directly Auntie died—and he said 
- something about my tuming my back on all my 


“WoPE DEAD, "18S ee 


_ friends for the sake of a fellow who had brought me_ ae : 


to this.” 

- “David Stevenson all over,” remurked Barbara, 
drily. “But, my dear young mistress, you didn’t let — 
him go away thinking what he had said was true?” 


“JT told him I had been married for months,” 


: Dorothy replied, “and then I just said ‘Good morn- 
ing’ in a tone of ice, and I walked straight in without 


even looking at him again.” 
_ * And he saw you come in here?” Barbara cried, 


“Yes,” Dorothy answered. “How could I help 
i?” : eA : | 

“No, I suppose not ; but, dey and on it, he will go 
gabbling back to Geaveloigh and set her. adyship 
and all the rest of them on to you.” 

“ Never mind if he does,” Dorothy cried. 

_ “But you wanted to keep it dark, my dear,” ee 
reminded her. 
~ Yes; but it doesn’t matter so much now that Dick 
is gone,” Dorothy replied. ‘ And, anyway, Esther — 
will be here, and Esther will be able to ward off 
everybody and keep them from asking me too closely 
about anything. I only hope that David Stevenson 
won't ty to force his way in here before Esther 


“What would be the good?” ‘Barbara asked. 
“You told him you were married.” __ 
“Yes, but he didn’t look a bit as if he believed 
me,” Dorothy returned. 
a ee Thea jast let him come here and try it on,” cried 
Barbara valiantly and really as she stood there, a 





386 ae DINNA roucet, : = 


stout anal pomfortable: figure wile her stra ie 
she looked more than a match for any ordi | man, 
and nobody would have believed, except auch as_ 

knew her well, how utterly her courage always — 
deserted her at a critical moment. “Let him try it 
on, that’s all. J can give him a bit of information he 
won't find very much to his liking—/J can tell his high 


. and mightiness that I see you married with my own 


eyes.” 

But David Stevenson stood in need of no such 
_ information: he had not believed that Dorothy was 
married—she was right enough there, Still, he 


had realised at last that she was not for him,andthat _ ; 


afternoon, whilst he was idly turning over the papers 
in the reading-room of the hotel and wishing hime 
self with all his heart down at Holroyd, it suddenly 
occurred to him that if Dorothy really was married, — 
he would be able to get evidence of the fact by — 
walking down the street and spending an hour od 
half-a-crown at Somerset House. 
And there, sure enough, he found the record 


that was the death-blow of his last little feeble — 


hope—the record of the marriage between Richard 
Harris, bachelor, and Dorothy Strode, spinster, 
bearing a date now & little - more than ‘nine 
months old. : : : 

‘‘Barbara Potter. witness,” read David to himself 7 
between his teeth, then clenched his hand hard as 
it rested upon his knee, go that the glove which 


covered it was burst in several places. “Damn 


that ald woman ! she must have @ hand in it of 
course.” 


Ther he put the e great Siok back’: upon the ais Brn 








“ 
A ie 


3 <a strode out hug the onigty Le corridors andl: 
across the great gloomy quadrangle, into the busy 

street. After a moment's hesitation, caused by the > 
noise and throng of the street, he made oe his. 


mind, _ 
“Hang it all, hat’ a he good of stopping bare 
rier my heart out? Tl go back one 73 goal feal 
ik ee — ere 


~ 


ROPE DEAD. | us oe 187 3 


sy : : 
CHAPTER XIV. 
THE ‘MISTRESS HOLROYE, 


HREE days had gone and still Esther Brand had 
not arrived in London. Each day Dorothy got 

more and more impatient for her presence, because, 
although she had never once seen David Stevenson 
since that morning when she had almost walked into 
his arms in the Kensington High Street, she was 80 
afraid that he might be lurking about the neighbour- 
hood that she had never set foot outside her own 
door. If she had only known that he was safely 
down at Holroyd, dividing his life between riding _ 
hard from one point of the property to another, and 
sitting moodily staring into the empty fire-grate, his. 
thoughts all busily occupied in cursing at fate! 
However, that phase of feeling did not last long 
with him; for one fine September morning he went 
over to the Hall and wandered round the quiet old 
- garden—a good deal of ita especial charm of quaint 
beauty “improved” away now—where she had wee ee 
her happy childhood. 

“Tl have that bed done away with,” he eaid to 
old Isaac, pointing out a small neat bed out in the — 
velvet turf, just in front of the dining-room window ; 
“it spoils the look of the lawn; dig it » and weil 
have it turfed over.” 

ola Iaaac looked at him  heitaingly ola me 


- when its almost certain alternative is the: workhouse. 











~ had felt bitterly his degendntion from nies to odth, 
man, yet ten shillings a week is not to be-sneezed at — 


_ He hardly dared to say what was in his mind; still, 
the old feudal instinct, the habit of wen was 
strong in him, and he ventured a timid protest. 
“That were Miss Dorothy’s own bed, Sir,” he 
began: “she dug in it her little self, and then she’d 
_ take a tarn round and have another spell o’ digging 
after. And then, in the spring-time, when the 
wioleta came ont, sho was wer re proud o’ the fust — 
_ bunch she took to the mistress.” 

“H’m,” muttered David, and moved away: 

_©Took it better nor I thought he would,” 
mused old Isaac, rather elated at his own boldness. _ 
- But Isaac had counted his chickens too early, for 
later in the day the head-gardener came round to 
him, ‘“ By-the-bye, Isaac,” he said, after mentioning 
one or two little matters, “the gov’nor wants that 
little bed under the dining-room window levelling 
and turfing over—wants it done at once.” 

“I hear,” said Isaac, 

The old man was trembling as he tuned away, 
- and when the other was gone, he stood by the little 
flower-bed as if it were a grave, looking down upon 
it with tear-filled eyes. -“Brute!” he ground out 

between his teeth, “brute!” “ What be I todo wi’ 

the wiolets, Bell?” he asked, the next time he came 

_ gcroas his superior, = ** 
 “@ov’nor said you was to chuck ’ em out on the 

rubbish heap,” Bell answered. 

_ “Nay, ll take ’em down to mine,” eaid Isano in 


| Sarerering voice. 


NM iy 7s 
ne oe 7 ae 5-2 2 
postr ” Pay ; “4 < 
Se te a oe oo, oe ee 


140 DINNA voRamT. oe . 


“ Aa you like about that,” said Bell, all unknowir 8 
of the tumult in the old man’s breast. 

And the day following _ that, David Bievunsa 
ordered his horse and rode away from Holroyd, 
through Graveleigh and past the old Hall to a large 
and Groenonoue lookin farm, about a mile beyond the 
house where Dorothy’s old friend, Lady Jane Sturt, 
lived. He turned in at the gates, and gave his horse — 
into the care of a man who came running out. “Is — 


A Mine Pleo at homo? he anced. 


“I believe she is, Sir,” the man replied; “but i 
you'll knock at the door, they'll tell you for certain.” 

A nice-looking country ect in @ neat apron and 
cap came to the door. 


Yes, Miss Elsie was at home, the mistress. had eu 


gone into Dovercourt. Wonld Mr. Sie come 
this way? 

He followed her into a pretty enough sitting-room, 
though it had but few of the little touches which 
had made Miss Dimedale’s drawing-room so pretty 
and so restful. There were shades over wax flowers 
and a plaster of Paris vase containing some — 
artificial orange-blossoms which had once adorned 
the wedding cake of the married daughter of the 
house, and ther were white crochet-work rags over _ 
some of the chairs, and others with fearful and — 
wonderful designs in crewels tied up with bits of gay- 
coloured ribbons. Yes, it was pretty enough, but not 


bearable to him after the quaint and dignified air 


which had pervaded everything at the Hall where ‘ 
she had lived. 

In two minutes Elsie Carrington came in, a . tall, 
. wWholesome-looking girl, with fair hair that was too 





3 HE MISTRESS OF HOLROYD; 141 


3 yellow and cheeks that were ton red, and as David’s 


eyes fell upon her I am bound to say that his very 


soul seemed to turn sick within him. Not that he — 


flinched, oh no, David Stevenson was not of the 


__ kind that flinches, 


“Tye come ona § queer enough errand, Elsie,” he 


_ began. 


_ “Yes?” she said in a questioning tone. 


“Yes! But it’s no use beating about the bush, it's 
best to be honest and true, isn’t it?” 
“Of course it is.” She was very much fished 


and puzzled too, but as yet she had no idea of his 


meaning. 
— «You must eee as well as I do,” he went on, not 
attempting to go a step nearer to her or even to 
take her hand, “ that Pve cared for Ros Strode 


all my life.” 


« Yes,” said the girl faintly, 
“Well,” standing up very straight and stiff, and 


with a face like marble, “that’s all over now, and I 


want to get my life settled into shape. Holroyd 


wants a mistress, and I’ve kept the place open so 


long,” with a pitecus attempt at making fun, “that 
I hardly like to offer it to any one else, Well,” 


’ finding she did not epeak, “what do you say, 
. Elsie? 4 


‘She was staring at him in utter consternation, her 


| light-blue eyes filled with wonder, her white brow 


wrinkled, some of the colour blanched from her 
cheeks, and her lips parted. “I don’t quite under- 


i stand, David,” she said at last. 


He drew a long breath of impatience. “ Look 
here, Elsie,” he said, “I am young, rich, deocent- 


hen Many i as by eg XS Shee 1) PRR PL pa ei FAT Fay Sorbe Damh icc ott | ate Fea Sateen ai th ENS AREA ret TR OR PAN atid ee item 
i aoa Cae SA AE oh a ahi hoes ite ¥ Ta A cet Visa eg StS 


149 " DINNA FORGET, 


looking, and not a bad sort as fellows go. But it’s 
no use my coming and offering you the devotion of 
a lifetime; you wouldn't believe me if I did—you’d 


know it was a lie, and I don’t want to begin by 


lying to you. But I can offer you all the rest of my 


life, and I swear I'll do my level best to be a good 


on 


husband to you—I swear that.” 
Elsie fairly Basped. “You are asking me to 
marry you, David? ” she cried. 

“Of course I am,” he answered. _ 

There was dead silence for a few PRES: David, 
gore and hurt, desperately anxious to get his future 
settled so that looking back would be a folly and 
repining nothing short of a sin, stood waiting for her 
decision, while Elsie turned away to the window and 
looked out over the fields, a thousand bitter thoughts 
chasing each other through her brain. It was all 
over with Dorothy, and Dorothy had evidently 
chosen another, Elsie was sure of that, thorgh David 


had not said so. And David had turned to her | 


in his trouble—there was comfort in that. But 
Dorothy had his love still, she was certain of that. 


You could see it in his haggard face, his nervous 


manner; hear it in his defiant voice. Many and 


many a time she had pictured him coming wooing to. 
her. She had let her hands fall idle in her lap, and 


x 


her sewing lie neglected, while in fancy she had seen — 


him turning in at the gate or coming in at the door, 


his mouth half smiling (as she had seen it for Dorothy's es 


sake), his cold eyes lighted up with a tenderness aa 


dear as it was rare; but in all her dreams Elsie had 


never pictured him coming like this, haggard and 


drawn for the loss of Dorothy, nervous, brusque, — 


THE MISTRESS OF HOLROYD. 148 


impatient, brutally truthfw and just, to ask her to 
make a bargain; in which love should be left out of 
the reckoning! To offer her his body, while sha 
knew his heart was all Dorothy’s! Oh! it was + 
dreary wooing, a bere hard bargain for her to maké 
or mar. z , 

“Well,” said he, after a minute or two, “ es d¢ 
you say?” 

_ “Is Dorothy going to be married 7” she shod 
suddenly. ) 

He winced at the question, but he answered it 
readily enough. “Dorothy is married,” he said 
steadily. | 

“Qh!” and then she gave a great sigh and looked 
at him with piteous, yearning eyes. 

“Well?” he said, “I am waiting.” 

“T don’t know what to say,” she burst ont suis 

“No! And yet I fancied you liked me better than 
the other fellows round about.” | 

His tone was half-bitter, half-reproachful, as if hia 
last hope was leaving him. The girl was touched — 
by it instantly, and turned quickly to him with both 
her hands outstretched. “Oh! David,” she cried, in 
@ voice of pain, “you know that I have always— 
alwaye—liked you—but—but——” 

“But what?” he asked coldly and without taking — 
the outstretched hands. 

Elsie let them fall to her side dear | 
“You have not said one word about caring for me,” 
abe said in a trembling, timid voice. 

David began to feel that this wooing, which he had 
fancied would be so easy, was going to prove more 


- diffoult than he had hed any idea of, He had believed 


| always that he: had iSihy to hold up the ioreapeed of. 


being mistress of Holroyd for Elsie to simply jump: 
at the chance, and here, to his intense surprise, was 
Elsie demurring to take him because he had said. 
nothing of love. 

“If I were a liar,” he said vouhly, “T should hive 
comeand madeloveto you. I should have pretended 
that I had been mistaken in thinking I had cared for — 
Dorothy, I should have sworn I had never loved any’ 
one but you. And by-and-bye you would have found. 


me out, and then we should both be wretched. As _ 


it is, I came and told you honestly all that was in my 


heart, I—I—asked you to help me over this bad 


time, because I thought you loved me and would 

bear with me because of your love. As it is, never 

mind, there are plenty of woraen who will marry me 

willingly enough, to be the mistress of Holroyd.” — 

- “David!” she cried, as he turned towards the door. 
He looked back—his hand still upon the handle. 

“ Well?” he asked. “Is it not so?” 


In that one moment a dozen thoughts deeuialt to a 


go crowding through the girl’s distracted brain—a 


vision of Holroyd, with its rich red gables, itsstately 


avenue of horse-chestuuts, its pretty lodge, its velvet 
lawns, and wide-sweeping view across the great 
sheet of water running up from the sea, then a vision 


of Holroyd with a strange woman as mistress, a— 


vision of that strange woman’s children breaking the ~ 
serene stillness of the place—ah! no, she could not 


lose him for the sake of the one thing wanting which © 


would make her cup of happiness full—in time that — 
might come—and even if it did not, she would at 


least be spared the agony of seeing another womax — | 


Dota pute 77, 





rae MISTRESS OF HOLROYD, an i ae 


reigning at Holroyd. No, whatever happened inthe us 


future, whatever might come to pase, she could not, 
would not, dared not run the risk of losing the man 


she loved. In that brief space of time, the true His 


instinct of feminine dignity which always lives ina _ 
woman’s heart, called for notice, but in vain—it was 
stifled in the pangs of love which consumed her. 
“David, don’t go,” she cried, in an appealing voice, 
as he turned the handle of the door, “I only 
hesitated because—because I have always loved you 
so, and—and I thought that I should break my — 
heart——” She stopped short there, ashamed to end 
her sentence, _ 

David Stevenson shut the door and came across 
the room to her side. “You thought what would 
break your heart?” hoe asked. 

But Elsie shook her head. ‘Never mind,” shesaid _ 
bravely. “We won't talk about that. I will come © 
to Holroyd, and—and help you to forget the past if 
I oan.” 

“Then that’s @ bargain,” said he, swe ict: a long 
breath. | 

_ He did not say a word beside, did not attempt to 
touch her, to kiss her, or ect in any way different to 
his usual mannzer to her, excepting, perhaps, that he 

was leas polite than ordinary custom considers neces- 
_ gary between persons who are not bound fogeties by 
ties of blood. i. 

« By-the-bye,” he maid middents: “z pave orks 
something to seal our contract. No, you need not — 
look like that. I only bought it yesterday. I went 
over to Ipswich on purpose.” 

He had taken a little case out t of his pocket, and 


Lee eee Beet ey 23 Brae Se 


- 146 DINNA FORGET. 


now held his hand out to her with a ring lying“upon 
the palm. It was a beautiful ring—diamond and 
sapphires—a ring fit for a princess. A 

‘Won't you have it?” he asked i in ciel oo as she 
made no effort to take it. 

“Yes, if you will give it to me,’ ’ she Hibwered: 

He took the ring in his other hand and Lald it 
towards her. Elsie took it with an inward groan, @ 
wild cry rising up in her heart. “Oh! my God, will 
it be like this for always?” and then she put it on 


her left hand, whence it seemed to strike sold + to her 


yay heart. 
‘‘T must go now,” David said; after looking at her 


: hand fora moment. “T'l eome back this evening. 


J must go now. Will you tell your people, and then 
Pll speak to your father when I come? And I shall 
ask for an early wedding, Elsie; the sooner it is 
over and we get settled down the better.” —. 
“Yes,” she said faintly. 
There was none too much colour in her cheeka 
now, poor child, and her blue eyes were dark with 


‘pain. 


David looked at her Healy, “T must get away | 
for an hour or two and think it all over,” he said 
half nervously. “I must have a clear story ready 
for your father.” . < . 

“ Yes.” | 
_“Then—good-bye.” = + 
“David,” she said in an almost inaudible vOICe, 
“vou have not told me that you are glad or any- 
thing. Have you not one kind word for me? Has 


Dorothy got everything still?” 


He started as if he had been shot, but ie bitte” 


ee aes ee Pee be Oe Oe FM SEA Ne ee ae age eT es Sees ee ey iy SO Ro TN NTR mee 
ReRAS IR TC BaAe 2 AO aLe TRONS OP Me oot Scan SEE PROP OLMIS ae A ARG 
; : y 4 5 





- HE MISTRESS OF HOLROYD. 14 


back at once and took*her in his arms and kissed 
_ her passionately half a dozen times. “Oh! my poor 
girl, it is rough on you,” he said regretfully. . “I'm ee 
a brute to let you do it.” : 

“No, no,” cried she, winding her arms ah sat hig 
neck; “no,no. I would rather be your slave than 
any other man’s queen. Kiss me again, David.” 3 

And David shuddered, Why? With the perversity 
of love! The heart that beat against him was beat- 
ing for him alone. The blue eyes looking so yearn- _ 
ingly into his were pretty and true. The clinging _ 
arms were fond and loving, but they were not 
Dorothy’s arms; they were not Dorothy’s eyes; it 
was not Dorothy's heart; aud he shuddered. And 
the next moment he was on his horse again and 
tearing homewards, while Elsie lay in a frenzy of 
grief on the floor, just where he had’ left her 
standing looking mournfully after him, 

Poor child! poor child! dimly and vaguely she 
realised what she had done. She realised thatif she © 
had held out firmly against him and had said, “Ihave 
loved you all my life, and as soon as you will come | 
and tell me you really want me for myself { will 
gladly come to Holroyd; but I will not marry any man 
whose heart is filled full of another woman—lI would 
rather live and die alone than that”—that then she 

would have had a fair chance of winning his heart as 
entirely as even she could wish. She realised this 
without actually putting her thoughts into language, : 
and she dimly grasped, too, that by fearing to let 
him go she had made herself David Stevenson's / 
_ glave-for ever. . ees : 





-OHAPTER XV. 
_ SMR THIN END OF THE WEDGE, 


ELL, it happened the. very day after this, thet 

Lord Aylmer made up his mind that he would 

wait no longer in effecting an entrance into the 
little flat in Palace Mansions. 


To do him justice, he never for one moment 


suspected that his nephew end Mrs. Harris were — 


married. He imagined that the little establishment 
was kept up in @ way which is not an uncommon 
one in London, and that now Dick was safely packed © 


off to India, he could go and make friends with the — | 


loveliest girl he had seen for many a day, without 
any more difficulty than that of starting an maa - 
ance. 


To tell the truth plainly, Lord Aylmer bad seen 


Dorothy with Dick several months before he carri Feo 


out the plan which had got his nephew safely out of the 
road, and had left him, as he believed, poor conceited, — 


fieluded old man, a fair field; and to tell thetruth 


further and more plainly still, Lord Aylmer had 
fallen desperately in love with her! So desperately — 
that he had put himself under great obligations to his 


‘old friend Barry Boynton, had set my lady's suspicions _ 


working, and had made Dick detest him more than. 
ever, in order that he might. possibly be able by 
hook or by orcok to find favour in Dorothy's eyes, : 





LED A 





‘Tor THIN, END OF THE. WEDGE, = «149 a : 


“Poor deluded old man, if he had only known all! If he ae 
could only have listened to the young husband and : 
wife discussing “the old savage,” and have known all 
that had Ae home in Dorothy’s faithful and tender 
heart! .~ 
_* But then, you see, he did not, and so I havea longer 
story to tell you than I should have had if all had 
gone_smoothly and well with our young couple, and. 
they had started their married life at the tail of a 
: - marching — regiment, on an increased allowance 
kindly given them by a liberal and indulgent uncle. 
- The old lord had not found it an easy matter to 
effect an acquaintance with the young lady in Palace 
Mansions; and really, when you think of it, it is 
not always an easy thing to accomplish, especially 
-- when there is no help on the other side! However, 
this morning, after having spent many hours | 
reconnoitering the block of buildings called Palace 
‘Mansions, after having driven slowly up and down 
the High Street, after making many more or less _ 
‘useless purchases in the High Street shops, and afte: 
fretting his impatient old soul into a fever, he made 
up his mind that he would go boldly to the house, — 
ask for “Mrs, Harris,” claim a friendship with the — 
- departed Dek, and gradually work into a position of. 
friendliness with the object of his present admiration. 
This admirable plan was, however, destined never __ 
to be carried out—not because Lord Aylmer changed 
hie mnid, not a bit of it! He carried out his part of 
it so far as to order his carriage for a certain hour, 
and when that hour came to get into it and to give 
an order to Charles. wes Ls 


«Where to, m’ lord 9% Oe 





Bnd AE NS Nee RC ALA PLA SOR RUTE eeT e  e fe rR eel ee ERS be SY EO RMN Se ik cet ren Cig > eupe Se! POS teeth At 7 TAA ERP eee) oe. 
Ee ee Piste N ges tae x i Me sn = 3 > : * 





150 a _DINNA FOuGEE, 


ne 


¢ Palace Mansions.” 

«Yes, m’ lord.” } 

* An’ I believe,” murmured Charles fo ‘Barker, as 
tucy drove off, ‘that the old codger’s done it at last. 
Palace Mansions is the order—that’s where oni! *Arrig 
lives, you know.” é 

“ Ay,” muttered the coachman, in reply. “And 
Mrs. ’Arris ’ll catch a Tartar in ’im, no mistake about ) 
that.” pace 

“They generally rie care of themselves,” said — 
- Charles, with a cynicism worthy of his estimable 
master. . 

Coming events, they say, cast their shadows 
before, and Barker, who had been giving a small 
share of attention to Charles and gossip, suddenly 
pulled in his horses with a jerk. “’Osses is inclined — 
to be playful to-day,” he remarked. : 

“T dessay they know it is the wrong time of year 
to be in town,” returned Charles, superciliously. 

“Likely enough. ’Osses is as sensible as Christians, — 
and sensibler than some,” Barker rejoined. 

As they got over the ground the “ playfulness” of 
the horses did not subside; indeed, on the contrary, — 
it increased, and to such an extent that by the time 
they turned into the Kensington High Street they ~ 
_ were racing along at express speed, with the evident 
intention of bolting as soon as they had a chance. _ 

Barker, however, knew his work and did not give 
give them the chance at all, and by the time they 
reached the corner of the road for which they were 
bound, they were going steadily again. Unfortu-— 
nately at that point, however, that terrible maker of 

mischief, the unforeseen, happened—a little child with — 


‘THE THIN END OF THR WEDGE, 151 


‘Balloon as large as a man’s head suddenly let go 
the string with which she had held it captive; the 
balloon soared away and dashed into the near horse's 
face; the child screamed at the loss of her toy; the 


horse reared and plunged. Barker administered a 


cut of his whip, and the next moment they were 
dashing down the road, and an elderly woman was 


lying helplessly in a dead faint just where the — 


carriage had passed, 

“My God! we are over some one,” shouted Lord 
_ Aylmer. He was the kind of man who, on emer- 
gency, always appeals to the Deity, whom in all his 
ways of life he utterly and systematically i ignores. 
“Let me get out,” he cried. 

Barker, who was pulling in the horses with might 
and main, had already checked their mad speed, and 
a moment or so later turned the horses, with a fare like 
chalk and a dreadful fear knocking at his heart that 
the motionless figure lying in the road would never 
move again. He pulled up just where the crowd was 
gathering, and Lord Aylmer was out of the carriage 
before Charles could collect his scattered senseg 
sufficiently to get off the box. _ 


The crowd was gathering in numbers every 


moment, and was not only dense and strong, but 


purious, Lord Aylmer, however, without standing 
on ceremony, vigorously elbowed his way to the © 


inner circle. 

“Let me pass; stand aside. Policeman, I am Lord 
Beer imeem horses were frightened by an infernal 
balloon that a child was carrying. Is she much 
‘worse 7” 


* Dead faint at Preegoh my lord,” sspliel the 





pone ean who baa ee ‘woman's hed up on ne 
knees, “I wish we estas: hi some » brandy and 
some water.” 

Lord Aylmer looked round for. Chaned = Charles, 
get some brandy and some water from somewhere or 
other. Be quick.” . 

Just then a well-dressed young woman n pushed her 
way through the crowd, “Let me pass,” she urged. 
«Can't you see I've brought brandy? Stand back, 
you men. Have you never seen an accident before? 
Do-you want to kill her? Stand back!” 

She was a handsome woman, scarcely more than 

a girl; her hands and face and speech betokened — 
that she was gently born; her fearless words, putting 
into words what was in hey mind, had the effect of 
causing the crowd to shrink back a little. “Is she 
much hurt, poor thing? ” she asked. | 
_ “Pretty bad. case, miss,” answered the polfcsaiee: 
who was trying to get a little brandy down the — 
unconscious woman’s throat. } 

“Hadn't you better get her into my house? She 
san't lie here,” she went on. “Has any one gone for 
@ doctor?” ‘ 
“T should get her orf to the ee at once, miss,” Pe 
_ the policeman replied. 
“Would you? Poor thing! I was standing at my 


window and saw it all. You oughtn’t tolet your — 
coachman drive like that,” she added severely to ‘a 


Lord Aylmer, ae 
“TT don’t; but my oe were frightened by a 
child’s balloon,” he explained. 3 
“You oughtn’t to have horses-that are frightened oe 
at trifles,” ehe responded logically. — yi 


Tete 5 


HR THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 158 


i at think we'd better get her orf at once,” said the 3 


} policeman, “she gives no signs of coming round.” © 


- “How can we take her? Shall I? -I have the o 


-earriage here ready, and the horses are sober enough 
now.” — 
_“ Yes, my-lord, I really think that’s the best thing 
_ we can do,” the other answered. “If your man ’ll 
give me a hand we'll lift her in, in a minute,” 
Eventually the woman was lifted into the victoria, 
and the energetic young woman having rushed 


back. to her house for her: hat, got in also, and ~~ 
supported her in as comfortable a position as was 
compatible with her insensible condition. Just ny 


they were starting, a doctor arrived on the scene, 
took a hasty glance at the victim of the accident. 
and quietly got in, taking possession of the little bacle 
seat. “I'd better go—it’s a bad business,” he said te 
Lord Aylmer, realising that he was owner of the 
— carriage. 


« Yes—yes—we had better follow in a cab x Lord | 


Aylmer said, turning to the policeman. “I sapeane 
you'll see this through.” * 

“Qh, yes, my lord; I’m bound to do that,” he 
pra wered: 

Lord Aylmer was getting more and more nervous: 
he got into the cab looking white and scared, with 
his sinful old heart thumping against his ribs in & 
way that was very unusual with him. Not because 
his carriage had run over an elderly woman and it 
was likely to prove a fatal accident, not for that 


- reason at all, but wholly and solely because, when 


Charles and the policeman had lifted the unconscious 


- Woman into the carriage, Lord Aylmer had picked _ 





154  DINNA PORGET, ; 

ap a letter which was lying is apwande im the 
roadway just where she had laid. Short-sightedneses 
was not one of Lord Aylmer’s signs of approaching 
years, and in an instant he had grasped that the 
. letter was addressed to his nephew Dick, and before 


Charles and the policeman had got their burden — 


safely into the victoria, he had thrust the letter into 


his pocket, with a sort of impious thanksgiving to 


Heaven that at last the girl he had been hunting 

down for many weeks was delivered into his hand. 
For evidently this respectable elderly woman, 

dressed in decent black, was Mrs. Harrie’s servant; 


and if it happened that she did not keep more than 


one—why, this accident ‘would put her altogether at 
his mercy. 

_ He was positively trembling when they reached 
the St. George’s Hospital, and Barbara was carried 


‘in, not unconscious now, for the alight jolting of the — 


carriage had brought her to again. Then there was 


a short time of impatient waiting before the doctor ~ 


came to them—that is, Lord Aylmer and the young 
lady who had come with.the patient. _ 

“Broken leg,” he said—*a bad thing at her time 
_ of day. And she is worrying about her mistress— 
wants to send and break it gently—isn’t in good 


health just now. _ Will you got” turning to the 


young lady, 


“1? Oh, I’m very sorry, but Pm due at rehearsal 
now—I must go off atonce. Couldn't you go ?” ashe 


asked, turning to Lord Aylmer, 


“Certainly—with pleasure. Shall I bring hee 
back to see the old lady?” Lord Aylmer inquired, 


ia a tone which was a deliz Wenders ea 


hi 


SEs ek IN ke oa ire Tian on 


Bale 


HE THIN END oF CHE WEDGR 155 : oe 


and fatherliness—a tone which had, by-the-bye, stood 
him in good stead many a time and oft. 
“Yes, it would quiet her down a little, I devo aay, < 


the house-surgeon answered. 


“Very well. Make me liable for any expenses, 
you know,” Lord Aylmer said, as he moved towards 
the door. “Can I see you into a cab, my dear i 
he added to the actress. 

« Thanks,” she answered, 

“ And may I have the honour of settling with the 
eabman ? ” 

“Qh, no—very kind of you, but I always pay for 
myself. The Cornhill—good-bye.” 

The cab rolled off, Lord Aylmer uncovered his 
handsome old head, smiled his most fascinating smile, 


and bowed with a profound air of respect, which 


was quite lost on the back of the retreating cab and 
its occupant. Then he got into his victoria and said, 
“Palace Mansions.” 

“Yes, m’ lord,” answered Charles woodenly ; then 


‘remarked to Barker, as goon as he hopped up on to 
_ the box—“ Palace Mansions; even broken legs don’t 


put ‘im orf.” | 
_ %Seems go,” said Barker. Barker's nerves were all 


shaken with the accident, and he would have given 


anything he possessed for a nip of brandy; he was 


not, therefore, very much inclined for conversation. 


Meantime, as soon as they had reached Albert Gate, 
Lord Aylmer drew out the letter and looked at it with 
@ grin of satisfaction on his wicked old face. “H’m. 
Richard Harris, Esq., c/o Messrs. Brewster & Co., 
10, Grove Street, Madras, India,” he muttered. “Qh, 
go you have not out the chaina, Master Dick, you've 














wick ed old voice. 


186  DINNA FORGET, = 


not burt your boats behind isos What a ‘fool “you 
are, to be sure!” ne 

He opened the letter without the dual scruple, 
tore the envelope into a thousand fragments and 
scattered them to the winds, then settled down to 
enjoy the tender words beginning—“ My own dear. 
Dick, and ending, “ Your loving and faithful little — 
wife, Dorothy.” 

«So her name is Dorothy,” he mused. oy Strange 


_ that they should always lay such stress on their love 
and their faithfulness! They're all alike. I wonder 
-who the Esther is that she talks about. Barbara is 


evidently the old girl who came to grief just now. 
Well, Barbara is safely laid by the leg for the next 


a few weeks. Really, it could not have fallen out 


better if one had planned it all. But I wonder who 
Esther is. ‘Esther hasn’t come yet,’ she says, ‘but 


‘may come at any moment, I must find out about 


Esther.” 
When they got to Palace Mansions, he saw 


- Dorothy looking anxiously out of the window. — 


“On the watch,” he said to himself, «and pretty es 
uneasy too.” : 

The lovely face disappeared when. the carriage 
drew up at the door, and the smart footman, in his 
glory of crimson and white, jumped down and 
opened the door for the handsome old gentleman, — 
who got out and went into the building. He 
knocked at the door of No. °3, and Dorothy, being 


perfectly alone, hed no choice but 0 go a . 


open it. 
«AmT speaking to Mrs. Hie said ‘the mare, 


hd 


8 Yeg” answered Dorihy:. wondering what he 
- could possibly want with her. 


“May I come in? I am Lord Aylmer. I have 


“THE THIN END oF THE WEDGE. Ast oe 


something to tell you. No, don’t be alarmed; it is 


nothing very bad. Pray don’t alarm yourself.” 

At the mention of hisname—and as the policeman 
and the doctor, the young lady who had gone to 
Barbara’s aid, and the people at St. George’s knew 
ell about him, it would, he knew, be useless to 
deceive Dorothy es to his identity, so he boldly gave 
his own name and trusted to the chance of her not 
knowing that he was anything to Dick— Dorothy 


started as if she had been shot, and at the hint of 
“something to tell,” which instinct always tells 


us means bad news, she staggered back, and~ 


would probably have fallen if he had not seuecs 
her. 


“I beg you will not frighten yourself like this,” he — 


‘ eried. ‘Indeed, it is not so serious ag that.” 


«Tt is——” Her lips could not utter Dick's 


name, her agony was so great; but her eyes spoke : 


. volumes in place of her tongue. 
It never occurred to Lord Aylmer that she was 


| ‘thinking of Dick. He only thought how lovely she 


was in her distress, and wondered how he could best : 


tell her the truth. 


_ “The fact is,” he gaid, blurting the truth out at 7 
last, “there has been as accident, and you old 


servant ——” 2 
“ Barbara—is she hurt?” Dorothy cried in dismay. 
“T am sorry to say that she is hurt. More sorry to 


~ be obliged to own that it was my carriage which did 
the mischief But won't you let me come in and tell 











eee ; 
ane he OE NS ea ER LA earl fy taeda op eae a Petri PRS Nex cca aeek ye cone er ak : 
pat Repeat pals eal 94 Rhyne ch ain WANE Pe NC Bae a mara SA PSR cs POLE Ra rt i ea BE fae Ty 


158 "INNA FORGER, 


you all abont it? It is such a shame te keep yor 


standing there.” 


“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, but [—that ie 3 


you have startled me, and I forgot that we were mill 
here. Come in.” 

She turned and led the way to the little drawing- 
room, and as she pushed open the door, suddenly 
there flashed across her mind a remembrance ef the 
fact that a large portrait of Dick was standing on a 
little table near the fireplace, Quick as thought she 
walked straight to the table and turned the portrait 


_ face downwards, carelessly throwing over it the 


pretty lace trifle which adorned the top of a little 
chair which stood close by. 

She flattered herself that the old lord had not seen 
or at any rate noticed the action, and turned to him 
eager to hear what had happened to Barbara, 

“Tell me, is she much hurt?” she asked. “My 
poor old Barbara! How wasit?” 

He told her then exactly how the accident bed 


= 


happened, and how they had taken the old lady ta : 


he called Barbara, with an air of being himself ary 


_ a boy) off to St. George’s, she being insensible and 
not able to tell them where she lived, | 

“To St. George's! Is that a hospital?” Dorothy 
cried. “Qh, my poor Eerbara) She will think that 
the end of the world has come.” 

“Qh, no. She is much better off than she ini 
be in any private house,” said Lord Aylmer, sooth- 
ingly. “But I am most grieved and sorry to tell 
you that her leg is broken, and she is naturally very 
anxious that you should be: of her, andi if pomitle 
_ that she should ese you.” 


Oh, Til go. TH go at once,” Dorothy cried. 
“Would you be kind enough to get me acab? I 
won't lose another ‘minute. Oh, my poor, dear old 
Barbara!” 

“May I drive you there? I have my carriage at 
the door,” he asked. . 

In an uncontrollable burst of gratitude Dorothy 
put out her two little trembling hands and took his, 
Qh, Lord Aylmer,” she cried, “how good you are! 
I won't keep you waiting a minute. I will be ready 

before you know that I have gone.” oe 

She ran out of the room and came back with her 
bonnet on and a dust-cloak over her smart tea-gown, 
but not before Lord Aylmer had quietly gone to the 
table and looked at the portrait which she had so 
adroitly hidden. Yes, as he had suspected from her 
movements, it was a portrait of Master Dick! He 
put it down again and walked to the window, where | 
he stood looking at his handsome carriage, with its 
_patin-coated horses and the two tall servants in their 
resplendent liveries. Lord Aylmer wondered how 
long the fascinations of a photograph would hold out 
against the fascinations of such a turn-out as that. 
And Dorothy, all the time, was thinking how lucky | 
it was that it was Lord Aylmer who had picked up 
_ Barbara, and how, now that she had got touch with 
him, she would be able to work things into a straight 
and comfortable state and send for her darling home 
again, instead of going out to India to join him. 

_ “7 haven't been long, have I?” she said, as she 
- eame in. | 

“Very quick indeed,” he answered approvingly, 
- gnd added to himself, “’Pon my word, but Master 





$B THIN END OF THE WEDGE, | iS 


(1600 | po FonaE, 


Dick has very fair taste—knows the right sort 4 when a 
he sees it.” 

“J will put my i on as we. zo; do net ‘tet us 
lose any time,” she said, going towards the door. : 

He handed her into the carriage with an air of : 
deference he might have shewn to a panhem: eco 
he got in himself and sat beside her. 7 

“Back to St. George Hompiteye he anid to 
Charles. 

“Yes, m’ lord,” said Charles 

And, as ill-luck would have it, at that very instant 
the lady with the serene eyes who lived on the floor 
above Dorothy’s flat, came down the street in time 
to see them come out and the old gentleman hand 
her into the carriage—nay, in time also to hear - 
Charles’s reply of “ Yes, m’ lord.” ge 
_ As if by instinct, the two women ideked at one 
another—there was no expression in the serene face 
of the lady who was on foot, nothing noticeable 
about her excepting a cold severity in her eyes; it 
was but the glance of a moment, yet Dorothy, who | 
guessed what was in the mind of the other, grow — 
acarlet from chin to brow, and turned her head away _ 






that Lord Aylmer nae not see that her yon were 


filled with tears. a 
«Will you be able to get on thon your old 

servant?” Lord Aylmer asked, as they drove along. ; 
“J must, for the present,” answered perokny: 
«But I meant—have you—that is—— 


« You meant have I another servant?” she finished. ai 
“No, [have not. I must see about someone totake 
her place for the time. I wonder where I bear (le to. — 


look for one?” 


aa 





“EME THIN END OF THE | WEDGE, 6 We 


« You don’t . know, ‘this part of London’ well E 
then?” he asked, 

“T don’t know London well at all,” Dorothy | 
answered, “for I lived in the country all my life 
until I wae—married.” 

There was a scarcely noticeable ouitation before 
she uttered the word married, and Lord ae 
interpreted it in his own way. . 
_ “If you could trust me to find out about it, [ think 
I know just the very person,” he said. “My valet’s 


wife she is—an excellent cook and a very clever, 


capable servant in every way.” 
“But would she come? ” 
“Tthink go.” 

“But to a little flat like 1 mine, with nobody to do 
anything but herself. I am afraid she isa person 
accustomed to a very large establishment——” 

- “] think that will be all right, I will make it 


— 


- worth her while to come. No, don’t look so, my dear 


Mrs. Harris ; it will only be just and right that I should 
pay for your temporary domestic—it must be a 
frightful mconvenience, and of course it was my 
fault. If I hadn’t been there, the old me wouldn’é 
have come to grief.” 


~ You are too good,” a etcae cs Deeotey, ciate 


She doald not ae monderia 2 as they drove 

along through the mellow: autumn air, how it was 
that Dick had so mistaken his uncle. It seemed to 
her that he was all that was charming and con- 
siderate—the sort of old gentleman who does not 
seem old, although his hair is white and he must have 
lived enough years for the world to call old. It was 


Gs ats ak ng AS ak ES Sa aan Die hl AN Are Oa cd COR LL age Bouts SOMME at ube ite asl at i Siac Si ah a repens as) i LS 
ra & a af ; ne) ) . 3 ? \ f “A ‘ 
163 DINNA FORGET. 


evident to her sweet and simple soul that Dick had 
never really got at his uncle’s inmost nature—which 
was true, and all the better for Dick that he hadn’t. He 
could not, she argued, be such a savage as Dick had 
always made out, for why should he take so much 
trouble for an insignificant stranger like herself, or 
for an old woman like Barbara, even if his carriage 
did happen to have knocked her down and broken 
her leg? That had nothing, or next to nothing, 
to do with it—oh, it was plain to her that Dick 
had never managed his uncle properly, and very 
likely Lady Aylmer had never managed him pro- 
perly either. ; ae 

So by the time they had reached the hospital, ) 

Dorothy had thought herselt into quite a blissful — 
frame of mind. She had built up a wonderful castle 
in- the air, when Lord Aylmer should express a wish, _ 
_ Qh, my dear, I do wish that you were my daughter!” 

when she would throw off her disguise and say, “I. 
am the next thing to your daughter.” “ How t” us 
“ Why, I’m Dick’s wife.” a 
_ She was so engrossed in her dream that she did 
not notice that they had reached their destination, 
until a smooth voice at her elbow said, “Now, dear 
lady.” | 

Somehow the tone jarred on her dream, but her — 
eyes were still radiant as she turned them towards 
him. “I did not notice where we were,” she said 
in a voice still tinged with the Ms of her 
dream. e 

“ Happy thoughts,” anid he, as he pee her to 
the ground. | 

* Very happy ones,” she answered, ig 








is de oe A bien ew tig ‘imate len de isi hia ear sag Hits 


They did not permit her to stay very long. Ron 
bara was lying still, very faint and weak from the 
shock of the accident and the pain of her leg. She 
‘was worrying and anxious about her young aan 
and Dorothy hastened to re-assure her, 

“Dear Barbara,” she said, “don’t worry the least 
little bit about me, not a little bit. I shall be just as 
well looked after as if you were there. Lord Aylmer 
is going to send at once to his valet’s wife, a very 


respectable, middle-aged woman, very clever and a. 


- good cook. And Miss Esther may be here any day 
now, you know; so that I shall get on beautifully. 


All you have to do, dear old Barbara, is to possess 


your Poa in patience and get wou as Sastey as ever 
you can.” 


“JT can’t think hat Hk master will say,” fretted 


Barbara. 
_. The master ! Why, he will be as sorry. as if I 
had broken my leg, or very nearly,” Dorothy ‘cried. 


“Now, dear, here is the nurse looking at me with a 


threatening eye. I must go. Good-bye, my dearest 
- old Barbara, and don’t worry, because I shall have 
my new help in to-night.” 
_ She stayed to ask a few questions of the nurse, 
chiefly about what things Barbara would need, then 
they drove quietly back to Kensington. 


For a little way Dorothy was silent. “Poor old. 
Barbara!” she burst out at length. “I don’t believe | 


she was ever ill in all her ae before; at least, I newer 
knew her to be ill, never.” 
“ And you have known her long?” : | 
« Ever since I could remember a ee Dorothy 
replied. 


i hit ly ii at, 
THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE, 163 : 


Se ea acts Vv sek as a Bs at 
aay Mehra oer ee eat 
oS . 5 3 








164  DINNA FORGET, = eee 


Lord Aylmer assumed an expression of surprise, e 


mingled with assent—he had a wonderful variety of 
facial impersonations, he could even assume goodness 
on occasion. “Comfort that old lady is safe in St. 
George's,” he said to himself, as he watched Poe 
lovely mobile face. — | 

She turned again to him. “How soon do you : 
think the woman you pee of will be ane to 
come?” she asked. 

“To-night, I hope,” he eapliel: a aay wey, I will : 
go and see her and let you know.” | 

_ “But what a trouble for you!” | 

“Not at all—a Bon pleasure, I can assure you,” 
gallantly. 

“ How good you are! » she cried, for the twentioth 
time. 

“Tt is very easy to be good, if I am good,” he said, 
emiling; “but I am afraid you judge me too kindly 
altogether. Then I will drop you at your house and 
go and see this good woman at once, come 1e back, and 
let you know the result.” ms 

“Yes, if you will,” said Dorothy. eae 

He helped her to alight and saw her safe in the 


house, then got into the carriage od sae “To 30) 


Grosmont Road,” he said. 
Yes, m’ lord,” Charles replied. hy ee Sie: 
“ Where to now?” asked. Barker, who was getting | 
tired and generally desperate. 
“ Grosmont Road.” 
“Oh, my!” muttered Barker. “I wam’t iro : 
when broken legs didn’t put ‘im orf Mrs, ’Arris; — 
but when Mrs. ’Arris don’t an him oe Gromeont S 


Bones 09 Rretly eae 





Ya Ao ae ee “i Sy eRe CTP fore SRP) PrP aye TM tek WEN SPD LL da VEER Dh fo is 1 Che Disa i) eee aoa og Se neh 2S 


gam rain exp 37 tun woran 168 


- Meantime, Dorothy had gone in to the «ntranee 


tall of Palace Mansions, where the porter of the 
establishment met her. “A lady for you, Ma’am,” 
he said. Then there was a pause, a rash, ara ©) 
glad ery of “ Ob, Esther! Esther$” 


CHAPTER XVL 
| DICK’S IMAGE, et 


T would be impossible for me to tell you what & 
relief it was for Dorothy to find her cousin Esther 
awaiting her on her return home. She oried a little, 
of course, and then managed to tell her all pont poor 
Barbara’s accident. 

“ Just as well for you that I tarned up when I did, 
my dear,” said Esther, drily; “it might have beer 
very awkward for you to be left alone long.” 
“Qh, but Lord Aylmer was so kind,” Dorothy 

cried. “He not only took me to the hospital to ses 
Barbara and brought me back again, but he has 
actually gone off now to see his valet’s wife, who is 
the very person to may wen me till Barbara is able 
to come home again.” 

“Yes, that is really very good of him,” Eather 
admitted. “But now, my poor little excited pale- 
face, I am going to make you a oup of tea, Show me 
_ the way.” 

So Dorothy took her sis Barbara's neat little 
kitchen, and Miss Brand established her cousin in @ 
chair, while she put the tea-things together and | 
made all ready. Then she carried the tray into the | 
drawing-room and made Dorothy sit in a big ame 
chair while she waited upon her and gave her aha! € 
thing that she needed for. her comforts 


ey gemi 


ae ns be, ee ae | a baie oo ,.° On fi Sra star\ (melee ade ee RO b Wt fad OE Ee o> Re ute tare OO es See Te 4 ae 
~ “ ae) ¢ } / 


‘porsmuce - _—_ié? 


“I sappose this Lord Aylmer is a smart man-about= 
town sort of person,” she remarked presently, as she 
slowly stirred her own tea round and round. 

“Qh, awfully old,” answered Dorothy—* at least, 
he doesn’t seem old, you know, but at the same time 
he is old. His hair is as white as snow, and he hasa 
delicious old-fashioned, half-faiherly sort of manner, 
And so kind, so thoughtful. z 

_ Ah, well, it is a very good thing. Really, the 
world isn’t half so bad as it sometimes seems,” Esther 
said dreamily, “Well,” with a quick change of. 
tone, “and this Dick of yours—he is Ley of 
eourse?” 
-. “Dear Dick,” murmured Dorothy. “Vos, he ts 
perfection, He did hate so to go and leave me, but 
he had to go—he had such a good appointment 
offered him, he did not dare refuse it. Still, he 
_ hated to go and leave me, just now especially. What 
the would say if he knew about Barbara, I can’t 
‘think. I don’t think I would tell him, would 
ut” 

«Mot till all is over,” pudwared Esther. “It would 

only worry him for nothing. By-the-bye, what i is he 


3 jike?” 


“Oh,” and Dovothy looked pond for her Dick's 
2 portrait. “Ob, here he is,” holding it out to her 
 eousin, — 
Esther ee took it ae looked at it attentively — 
| for. & long time, sipped her tea, and looked aoa and 
yet again. — 
| “Well,” said Dorothy, iupationtiy 

eal like him,” said Esther, “he looks good and 
rue, and he is a handsome man too—a fine, honest. 





bc on? 


163 | DINNA FORGET. = 
locking, manly man. Yea, I like bim— yore a 
lucky little girl, Dorothy.” 

“So I think,” answered Dorothy proudly, “and 
Dick is just what he looks—honest as the day, and ae 
good as gold.” 2 

Esther laughed. “Well, you are a floss. little 
woman to have won such a husband. - J never met a 
man like that, or I should have been tempted to give — 
up my liberty long ago. Do you know, dearie, I 
always had a horrible conviction that you would 
end by marrying David Stevenson, and I always fe 
dislike David Stevenson with all my heart and 80 

“So did L” answered Dorothy promptly. 

For a moment she was tempted to tell Esther all 
about her meeting with David, then a feeling that it 
would be scarcely fair to him held her back, and she 
kept her own counsel about that matter, | 

“Of course there is no knowing what I might or 
might not have done if dear Auntie had lived,” she 
said, wishing to explain everything as far as possible 
and yet avoid saying much about David's feelings for 
her, “and if I had never seen Dick; but then, you _ 
see, I did meet Dick, and Dick liked mes and— 
and——” 

«And David Stevenson went to the wall,” Eather 
said, finishing the sentence for her, “and a very — 
proper and suitable place for him too, my dear child,” 
with a laugh. ae 





_ Dorothy laughed too. “Ah! you are all very hard ans 


on poor David,” she said softly. a : 

So they sat talking over the old times and Oe 
new for more than an hour. Then Esther suddenly | 
ee a her of dinner, . | , 


~ peor’s néion, - ae as 


“Now, how shall we do about dinner? Hadn't 
we better wait a little and see if this woman comes, 
and then go into town and dine somewhere?” she 
said. “J can’t offer to cook a dinner for you. If I 


did, it would probably kill you to eat it.” 


“Just as you like. Then, couldn’t we call at 
St. George’s and leave a note to tell Barbara you 


have come?” Dorothy asked. “ It will be such @ 


load off her mind.”. 

“To be sure,” Esther answered ; and then Hey 
settled down to their chat again, and Esther heard a 
great deal more about Dick, and learned a great 
many of Dorothy’s hopes and wishes about the baby 
that was to come before very long. 

And presently there came some one te the door 


who rang gently and knocked softly, 


“TI will.go; sit still,” cried Esther. 
She went to the door, where she found a hand- 


gome, neatly dressed woman of about forty years 


old. “Mrs, Harris?” ahe said inquiringly. % 
“No,” said Esther; “I am not Mrs. Harris, but 
this is her house. Wiil you come in? I suppose 


Lord Aylmer sent you ie 


“Yes, madam,” said the stranger, Pepbetfilty. 
It struck Esther as a little odd that she should use 
the term “madam,” but she put the thought away 
from her almost as soon as it had taken shape in her 


mind. “Of course, she is a married woman, and 


perhaps has never been a servant at all,” she said to 
herself; then said aloud, “Well, come in and see 
Mrs. Harris. I am sure she will be very glad that 
you have come. By-the-bye, what is your name?” 


: ane name is ‘Harris, too, madam,” the stranger 
M 





170  DINNA FORGET, | 


answered, eh @ deprecating look, as. r she had me 
rather taken a Uiberty i in bene: married @ men es 
the name of Harris, | | 

“Dear me, how odd! Well, I suppose my cousin 
will like to call you by your Christian name. And 
that is o., a 

“ Amelia, madam,” she answered aie 

«Qh, yes” Then Esther opened the dawns 
room door, and bade. Amelia Harris follow her. 
“Dorothy, here is Lord Aylmers—— Why, my 
dear child, what is the matter?” for Dorothy was 
lying back in her chair with a face as white ae chalk 
and pinched with pain. _ ees 

«T am go ill,” she gasped. “Oh, Esther! Esther!” | 

Esther took firm ground at once. “Now, don't 
give way, my dear; all will be well,” she asserted. — 

“ Here is our kelp, and we will have the doctor a 
here in next to no time, if you will only tell me 
where to send for him.” : 

“Dr, Franklin, in Victoria Road,” Dorothy : 
answered. ‘But don’t leave me, Esther; don’t.” : 

“Certainly not, dearest. Amelia will go and 
fetch him,” Esther returned. __ 

“JT had better go at sagt mete nid Amelia, | 
quietly, om 
“You, say Mra Harris is vey. M—that '& eG 
urgent.” 2 ots 

“Yes, madam,” answered Amelia, 9 st” ao 

She walked off to the Victoria Road ata crotig 
quick pace, thinking hard as she went, “ H’m; from 
what he told me, he never spoke to her before to-day. 7 
Queer. I wonder if ,he knows about this baby, 
Shall I wire him, or ahall I keep the news as a little 





oe SP at en fetta hae 5 r Et 





: : aes MAGE | mo 
| a surprise for to-morrow? Till keep it. The sight of 
as bis lordship’s face will be worth something.” 
She knocked at Dr. Franklin’s door and asked to — 
gee him in exactly the same quiet, self-possessed way 
‘that she had spoken to Miss Brand, and all the time 
her thoughts were running on this new fancy of his 
Jordship’s. | 
“A little sickly-looking girl, little better than a 
child,” she was thinking, as she followed the neat 
maid into a waiting-room. ‘Not, I dare say, that 
he’s looking her best just now; but still, what he 
can fancy in her after a woman like me — but 
there—— Yes, Sir,” sho said aloud, “Mrs. Harris has 
been taken suddenly ill, and Miss Brand wished me 
te oome and fetch you at once.” : 
“Miss Brand?” said the doctor, ey: ¥ Whe 
is ahe ?” : 
_ Mirw, Harris's cousin, Sir.” | 
_ “Qh! yes, yen I soe. Fit be round im three 
_ minutes—in three minutes.” _ 
“Very well, Sir.” 
‘Amelia Harris went quickly away, her thoughts 
still with the old lord. “Some women wouldn’t do 
the things he asked of them—the things he asks of 
me,” she said to herself; “and if they promised to, 
they'd play him false in the end, and be jealous, and 
all that. Not me, though! Lord Aylmer can do 
what he likes, and think what he likes, and go where 
he likes; it's all one to me so long as I'm paid for 
_ my troable. My! he must be in earnest over this 
business, Five hundred for a month's work—five 
hundred pounds!” 
: ‘By that time she had reached the Mansions and 


17% SINNA FORGET. 


ghe weuat m, took off her bonnet ed elcan, an@ > 
bustled about as only a thoroughly good worker — 
can do, getting ready for the great event which 
seemed imminent, which indeed was imminent, for ~— 
by tho time morning light shone over London town 
there were two more inmates of the little flat in 
Palace Mansions—a stout motherly nurse, who hushed 
upon her ample bosom a wee fragment of humanity, 
@ very small and soft pinkish ‘person, who had grunted 
and squalled already in quite an alarming fashion, 
and who was, #8 Dorothy fondly told Esther Tread, 
the very image of his father, dear Diok,. 





CHAPTER. XVIL 
“MIsoHTEy, 


MELIA HARRIS proved herself to be all that 
Lord Aylmer had said she was—a strong, 
active, and capable woman, quiet’ and quick, a good 
cook, neat in appearance and respectful in manner. 
She took the orders for the day from Miss Brand, and 
_ went off about eleven o'clock to get various things 
‘that were wanted, and among other errands she had 
e telegraph form to hand in at the post-office. — 

It was from Esther Brand to Richard Herris, and 
announced briefly but to the point, “Sen—both 
. well,” . 

“Tt will cost a good bit, Amelia,” Miss Brand said. 
“JT don’t know exactly what, but they will tell you 
at the post-office, And, by-the-bye, you’ might bring 
back a dozen stamps for India. We shall be writing 
to Mr. Harris by each mail.” sae 

«Yes, madam,” Amelia Harris answered. 

‘She was a clever woman, that same Amelia, for she 
went to the office and handed in the telegram, saying, 
_ * Will you tell me, please, what that will cost?” 

The clerk added it up and told her the amount. 
« Thank you,” she said. “I will tell my mistress.” 

So did she, but only that the telegram had cost so 
much, and the money which Miss Brand had given her 
was short of exactly that sum. 


ve Pa f 
2. ak Jaw iat ¥ wes 


1% = = =————s ENN FORGET. 


» “Qh, not so very much, after all,” salar Mie 
Brand. “We will send him another wire in - week 
or so to let him know how they are going on.” ~ 3 

“It will be a great relief to the gentleman to know 
all is satisfactorily over, madam,” answered Amelia : 
Harris. in her smoothest voice. 

“Qh! yes, indeed,” returned Miss Brand, 

She went then to sit beside her cousin’s bed, to 
bid her follow the doctor's directions and keep per- 
 fectly quiet, as if poor little delicate Dorothy would 
be likely to do anything else. Then she just told 
her that she had sent off a wire to Dick, and that as — 
soon as she had put things in trim for lunch, Amelia 3 
was going to run down to St. George’s cone to 
carry the great news to Barbara. | 
Qh, that is good! Barbara will be 60 anxious,” 

murmured Dorothy in her sweet voice. “And Dick, 
too, how proud he will be! You'll write at once, — 
Esther, to tell him everything, to tell him how exactly 
like him the boy is. He will be so pleased.” 3 
_ “Texpeot he would rather it were like you, dearie,” . 
said Esther, smiling. 

Qh! no. But you minata't call my boy ‘ sit, 
Esther,” Dorothy declared, “ and—and you'll be sure 


_ to tell him that-Lord Aylmer has- been kindness if 


itself to me, won't you? ” | ae 

“But, my dear, I Pionght we were not ‘is tell him 
about Barbara’s acvident?” Esther exclaimed. | 

“No—true,” and Dorothy for a few minutes lay 
thinking deeply. Then she turned her eyes back 
again to her cousin’s face. “Oh, I think you may as 
well tell him; you see, you are here, and the baby. 
ig here too. Dick will know that I am in good 


‘MISOHIEF, «1 
hands, I think I would rather that you told si 
after all.” 

“My dear child, take my advice—don’t cpaliee 
the accident or Lord Aylmer at all,” Esther urged. 
“He will ROY and a worying man is an awful | 
_muisance.” aa ee 
“J don’t like deceiving Dick,” Dorothy protested. _ 
_ 7? “No, dear, no, but one could hardly call that 
deceit,” Esther answered. ‘Anyway, will you leave 
: it to me? I will write on Wednesday mornin gy. and 
bring you the letter to read.” 

“Very well, Esther,” said Dorothy. »— 

That is better. Now, if I go away you will rest 

7 a little, and I have various odds and ends to do,” 
eid Esther, tenderly. 








One of her various “odds and ends” was to send | 


Arnall off to St. George’s to inform Barbara that 
the long-expected event had happened, and that 
_@ fine bouncing boy, the very image of Dick—of his 
father, she said—was now flourishing at Palace 





Mansions, And if the truth be told, Amelia Harris 


- went off on this errand without any great feeling of 

eatisfaction, for just at that moment she particularly 

wished to remain in the house, having.a great desire 

to be the person to impart the news to Lord Aylmer, — 
: when he should care to cee for Mrs, Hone s 
welfare. 

Of course, ate arcaet with her thoughte as ae 
went up the road, it was just possible that he might 

wait until after lunch-time, but then, on the other 


hand, there was not very much going on at this 


: time of year to occupy his lordship, and she 
was efraid bis impatient soul would bring him 











WANE aos 1 epi tae ew re Ra peihy ee oh, Sel Nia WE OPS NT tae feo Wee ae 3 
. Seay ine Cae: Sr nie Peer eS aia EP ke Roe Ry RT Erk: 


176 DINNA FORGET. 


to look after his prey as sad as he conventionally ) 
could. : 

And Amelia Harris was perfectly. right, for just afl 
she was passing the Knightsbridge Barracks on her 
way citywards, Lord Aylmer’s carriage stopped at 
the door of Palace Mansions. Esther saw it draw up, 

“Nurse,” she said, going softly into the little 
dressing-room, where the nurse sat crooning over the 
baby by the fire, “ will you answer the door for me— ~ 
Amelia has gone? It is Lord Aylmer.” 

The mere mention of a Lord was sufficient to send 
the nurse off to the door in a bustle, perhaps the good 
woman scented a tip in the near future. Anyway, 
when the door was opened to the great man, he was __ 
astonished to see a stout, comfortable-looking body 
standing smiling and curtseying within. “Yes, my 
 lord—walk this way, my-lord,” and forthwith she — 

_usheréd him into the drawing-room, and ‘went back 

to the dressing-room to relieve Esther of the baby. 

“A very abe aes old gentleman, vine she 1 re- 

marked. 3 

“Tg he?” said Esther. “No, I've never seen 

hun. 93 

Meantime, ee Aylmer, atnpeobig nothing of 
_ what had happened, was standing at the window 
watching his horses, his keen and wicked old eyes” 
having noticed during the few moments that he had ~ 
been in the room that Dick’s portrait had gone. He 
heard the sound of the door opening, and turned to © 
meet, not Dorothy in her flowing blue draperies, with 
her sweet, shy grey eyes uplifted to his, but a tall 
dark-eyed young woman in a play. ne gown, who 
came forward and held out her hand in what was 


enmistakably the fashion of a woman who considered 
herself his social equal. | 

“Good morning, Lord Aylmer,” she said cordially, 
“J must thank you very much for all your kindness 
to my little cousin, who is very lonely just now. My 
name is Brand—Esther Brand.” F 

Lord Aylmer could not help starting a little, but 
he covered it by a profound bow and a protestation 
that he was delighted—enchanted, in fact—to have 
the honour of making Miss Brand’s acquaintance, — 

So this was the Esther of whom she had spoken 
in her letter — Esther Brand; ay, and likely to 
prove a brand between him and her. He looked 
with disgust, and a thousand bad words jostled one 
another in his heart the while, at Esther’s pale, 
resolute face, her firm, white, capable hands, noted 
her fearless manner, and admitted that she was 
unmistakably a woman of education and good breed- _ 
ing. And it is only fair to say that. Lord Aylmer 
7 positively cursed his ill-luck even while he kept a 


smooth and smiling front to the enemy. 


- “And shall I not have the pleasure of seeing — 
_ Mrs.—er—Harris this morning 1” he asked, finding 
presently that there was no aign of Bok 
appearance. : 
- Miss Brand laughed. “Well, hardly,” she an- 
pe hl “ My cousin is as well as could pone be 
expected under the circumstances.” ; 

‘What circumstances?” Lord Aylmer asked, 
thinking that Miss Brand was alluding to Barbara’s 
accident, ‘ 

“The circumstance of 8 baby,” said Esther, 


: mailing, 


Pebeever ea ie iin S004. 








178  “‘DINNA FORGET. 


“Of what? Forgive me, but I do not follow. you," 
he said. 

“My cousin has got a baby, Lord Aylmer," said 
Esther, smiling still more broadly. 

Lord Aylmer jamped to his feet. Esther, not a 
Kittle startled, sprang to hers. 

“WHAT?” he cried. 

“ Mrs. Harris had a little 'son born at four o’clock 
this morning,” said Esther, who neither understood 
nor particularly admired this unlooked-for and ‘un- 
cealled-for display of feeling. | te 

“ Good God!” burst from the old lord’s lips. | 

For a few moments they stood staring right 
into one another's eyes, he astounded, disgusted, 
baffled; she puzzled and a little angry at his 
unusual and extraordinary behaviour. Of the 
two, the old lord was the first to. recover 
himeelf. : 

“Pon my soul, my dear lady,” he aaid, writh an 
immense attempt to seem jovial and even amused, 
« I never was so surprised in all my life before—never. — 
You might have knocked me down with a feather, 


FEE tc Ey MMe eh oN NED MERE Bue ge WE NE SS Le Med eae ins oN oo eee, LEK TE 


"pon my word, you might. A baby—a little son— ae | 


and I left Mrs. Harris late yesterday afternoon, and 
hadn’t the faintest suspicion that ales cs of the 
kind was in the wind.” 3 : 
Miss Brand raised her eyebrows and smiled rather 
coldly. “That is not very surprising, Lord Aylmer,” a 
_ she observed, “As you never saw my cousin before — 
yesterday, yen could not be expected to have so 
picions.” | 
“Qh! no, no; but you qaciiiet me we mach, oe pe 
he Casas os gehts | 


£7 [Rig ee Pend WOR ce Mat ad gear ew Ay Seen Mr Fa ORGAN a hh. POO hs, Peery ve EN poly SeBAS 1 RR SAND SOUT! Be RT| ee eT eas epi Chala 
Pans eee ee sain Us BSAA teresa s Fe ut saa ay, EN a 
Lae Ahad as Se hen Bees - ie s 


moe 


aunt yes, thanks: as well as wo could possibly ‘ i 


See ” Esther pind. 


“ And not too much upset by the accident to the 


poor old lady ease T hope?” he inquired 
tenderly. 


“Oh! no. Of course, she was upset at the time, ; 


but she was wonderfully calm and quiet after 2 got 
here.” 


“ And my valet’s wife—Amelia pete ie doea 


, she like her?” he asked, 


«Well, really, Lord Aylmer, she hardly owe 


- Amelia came in, and I had to send her off for the 
_. doctor almost before my cousin saw her. But I like 


her and find her very useful; in fact, we should be 


but very badly off to-day but for her.” ~ 


“That is good,” Lord Aylmer said with his: mort 


| fatherly 1 manner. 


He felt, this wicked ‘aud wily old man, that he 
would have to be continually on his guard with this 
steady-eyed young lady. By her advent the diffi- 


culties of the situation would be greatly increased ; 
_ if he succeeded now in ousting. Dick and getting 


hold of Dorothy, it would be in spite of Miss Esther 
Brand. Yet the difficulties of the situation only 


made him the more anxious to come off victor in 


end, only made him more determined to win 


rothy if possible, whether it were by hook or by 


_. crook. 





: He rose to go then, and held out his hand to his | 
~ enemy. “y am not 2 only glad but greatly relieved — 


that Mra. Harris is able to make herself useful, 
| because I feel that I am in a measure responsible 


ied the accident hs your cousin’s own servant. J] 


Ak 
+) 


roe 


Se See ee 





BO ee oe 
En cect ES et eee 


eb as ess 





180 INNA A FORGET, 


shall be quite anxious 6 hear ne she. goed, on—= 


your cousin, I mean. I wonder if you would send 
me a line now and again to Aylmer’s Field, near 
Norwich? I should be so much obliged.” ere 

“ Oh, certainly I will let you know ; it is very good 
of you to be go interested,” Esther Bel ens 


“Ah! that is good of you. I am an old man now, .. — 


and it is the distressing habit.of old people to worry _ 
themselves about everything. I shall worry more or 
less about your cousin until I know she is about 
again.” : 
“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” said Esther, pale 
“Then you are going out of town?” ~ 
“Yes. I am going to Aylmer’s Field for a few 
days,” he replied. “By-the-bye, I shall be charmed 
to place my carriage at your disposal during my 
absence—for as long as you like BELORW ATOR, for the 
matter of that,” he added. | 
«That is really very kind of you,” said Esther; 
“but—it seems rather taking an _ advantage | of 
you, 99 
“Not at all—not the least in the world,” es in 

the old lord quickly. “I will tell them to send. round 
every morning for orders.” __ : 
~ He went hastily away after this, chuckling 2 at ae 
access of his visit. “I thought she was going to be 
difficult,” his thoughts ran; “but she’s a woman, 
and, after all, the same Oe catch all of them—all 
of them. There are two things a woman never 


seems able to resist—diamonda and a golly smart a4 


turn-out.” 
He sat still for a few minttos after they turned into 
the High Street, then called to Charles. 4 Ohatiog, 


\ 


drive slowly from here to St, George’ 8 famine 
he said. 
“Yes, m’ lord,” atiawered Charles. 


“Never knoo ’im take such a heap of trouble 


. before,” murmured Charles to the coachman. 

“ Ain’t it wonderful ?” returned that fanctionary, 
with a wink, 

~The old lord was in luck’s way, for just as they 
reached the corner of the hospital Amelia Harris 
came out of the big building. She saw him in a 
moment, and Lord Aylmer called out for the carriage 
to stop. The carriage drew up close beside the kerb, 
and Amelia Harris stood quite close to the door, so 
that not a word of her conversation could be heard 
by the two stiff and solemn figures” who sat with 


their heads carefully turned away from the witked 


old man behind them. | 
“Well?” he said. | se 


“Well,” she said, looking at him in a hard, by : 


kind of way, “have you been there ?” 
66 Yes.” 


“ H’m—nice little surprise for you, I should fancy.” 


“ Oh, a devil of a surprise,” irritably, 

Amelia Harris laughed cynically. “Ah, I’ve been 
wondering all the morning what you'd think, Well,” 
sharply, “does it make any difference, or are you 


~~ going on, because if it does——” 


— «Well?” 

“Well, Pll send on this telegram and give her this 
- Jetter. Poor little fool! she has Woes worrying about 
the Indian mail all the morning.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind—of course I am 


6 going on,” cried Lord Byhnge sharply, under hig 











EER eee 





PKS pee OLS aie Se es we g Pe ey RM CP EN ERET Yee ht Catan ga SRE eS A ee nM BY SY Bae 
Sern se 5 pak alta Tce MR ea) Cana Ui pia ye Rial ee 
- S 2 Cy 4 poe) at rn ‘ t 





| ‘182 |  -DINNA FORGET, 


breath. “Give them to me—what are cha There 
—that will dé. Go back—take » cab—and look 
* after my intereste as if—thie—this—creature had not 
come at al] to interfere with my plans. If anything 
of importance occurs. write to me at Aylmer’s Field, © 
If you need to use the ete praph, be ver cereiut how . 
you word your message.” — 
Qn the old plan, I suppose?” ahe asked! 
“Yes; now go. Shy es to my slyb. i 
“Yes, m’ lord.” Ee 
Being September, the old doed toned his favourite Z 
club almost deserted—not that he minded, in fact he 
wanted the club to himself, and practically he had it. 
He did not waste time, but read the telegram at once. _ 
«“ Boy—both well,” with a sneer, and tore it into a — 
thousand fragmenta which he flung into the grate. _ 
‘Then he opened the letter, in Dick’s well-known: Cie 
writing, bearing the Madras post-mark. ee 
It was a long and tender letter, full of solieitnaa! 
for her welfare and giving her amusing sucess beac 3 
of his every-day life. ieee 
“Madras isn’t much of a place, my darling,” 
Dick said, “ but I shall like it ies cue when, Adel 5 
are out here,” | 
“ Good God!” Lord ‘Avitier « cried toed .: then she 
means going outto him. So that’s your game, is it, a 
my little white cat?. Ah! we must see if we. can't 
make a change in that programme.” _ a 
_As he sat there muttering over the lntéee, an » old = 
ae gentleman, who was peacefully slumbering over the 
Morning Post, atarted miglently: and Saat to make ee 
profuse apologies. : 
_ “Beg your pardon, I’m ta sabe I was! +n0d ee . 


* 













RE EGG eR RN Ue anna Ee i ad ot ar ete SCP nail Misia OAM pas Hr at dee see A. SRO 3 oh 


_  MISORTET : 183 
over the paper—ten thousand pardons, and—why, 
it's Aylmer! Bless my soul, Aylmer, are youintown! - 
How do you do?” | 

“Yes, I am in town—I’m quite well, thank you, 
end {[ don’t want the paper because [I'm reading 
letters of great importance,” said Lord Aylmer, rudely 
and pointedly, and with an utter absence of the 
delightful fatherly manner which he Ar so effectual 
at times, 

“Qh! really. Deuced unpleasant letters too, I 
should think,” said the old gentleman, who was a 
much more important personage than Lord Aylmer, 
and did not care a snap of the fingers for him. 

‘He got up from the chair where he had been’ 


sitting, and waddled off to a somewhat easier one in 


' 


‘the big bow-window, where he sat down and began 
diligently studying the paper, only presently to go 


fast asleep again with the paper defiantly clasped in 
his arms. Lord Aylmer went on studying Dick’s 


letter, feeling better for the small passage of words, 
much as one often feels when a thunder-storm has 
cleared the atmosphere on a hot summer's day. | 

«All the game,” the letter continued, “I have got 
most comfortable quarters here, and I have seen a 


jolly little house about a mile from the town, where I 


think you will be as happy as possible. Iam looking 


- eat for a first-rate ayah for you, but really I fancy 
- it will be the easiest if you get an ayah for the child 
in town—there are always some who have taken 


children over and want their return passage, You 


sas _ see, my darling, I have not been idle about yoa, nor 
= “forgotten to make the best of my opportunities in 
"gathering information which may make you more 3 











ES AE Re RC  DS m CHRP ACE Me aoe, fs SEI a ea ee og Ue ALS UR Re ONO een ere 
184 DINNA FORGET, ee 
comfortable, though I think sometimes that people 

~ must wonder why I want to know about Nor and 
nurses,” 
For a long time Lord Aylmer sat lost in angry 

~ thought. So this was the meaning of Dick’s sudden 
gurrender, his dutiful acquiescence with his uncle's 
wishes. There had been no breaking of his chaina 
when he set sail for the East, no burning of his boats 
behind him. Not a bit of it! No; the young 
gentleman had quietly—ay, and very oleverly—made 
the best of what to him was a very bad and very 
distasteful business, and intended to carry on the 
Palace Mansions arrangement in Madras just al he 

had done in London. =: 
‘But somebody else had to be dealt with, the ae 
lord’s grim thoughts ran—somebody else with a 
brain a good deal shrewder than Dick's, and a will 
like cold steel. Lord Aylmer would have something 
to do and say in the matter of Mrs. Harris’s intended 
voyage to India, and he had no notion whatever of. 
allowing his nephew, whom he cordially detested, to 
carry out all his arrangements in triumph, and in 
epite ofhim, = 
He roused himself presently, and weit 6 the table 2 un 
where writing materials were lying. Then he forced 
himself to write an ordinary letter to Dick, telling 

** he was in town for a few days, but was off to — 

Aylmer’s Field to-morrow, that my lady was better, — 

and he trusted Dick would bear in mind that he had 

to reinstate himself in his uncle’s good graces‘that — 

he might get over the disappointment caused by his 

refusal to marry Mary Annandale, and therefore he —~ 
ss tasted ke would spare no pains te make himself — 


~ 





MISCHIEF 185 


indispensable to his old friend, Barry Boynton. And 


at the end of this meaningless and commonplace 
letter, Lord Aylmer made an addition, which, like the 
scorpion’s tail, contained the sting :— 


_ “«P.S.—By-the-bye, you will be Gaccested to hear 


that your little friend Mrs. Harris has consoled her- 
self for your absence, without loss of time. I saw 
her yesterday with a gentleman in an uncommealy 


well turned out open carriage—splendid horwes, 
smart servants in white liveries, cockades, and all the 


rest of it. After a long and intimate acquaintance 


with the world, I have come to the conclusion that 


soft-eyed little women of that type have marvellous 


_. wisdom—they forget the past, give no thought to ~ 
the fature, take the hour as it comes and make the 

| - best of it. Sensible creatures!” : 
‘And this most dangerous of all lies, the lie which 


was half a trath, Lord Aylmer dropped into the post- 


box, and in due time it went: speeding over sea and 


land in place of Esther Brand’s telogram, “ my 
m both Sasa oe 








sa 











CHAPTER XVII 


SUSPENSE. 


WHOLE month had. gone by and stifl no ae 
, had come from Dick to the anxious heart so 
fondly waiting for news in Palace Mansions. Or 
stay, that is not quite correct, for a long letter from 
Dick had come by each mail, but they had never 
reached Dorothy, each one of them aay wes in 
Lord Aylmer’s possession. 


“JT can’t make out why your husband-has never oe 


written, why he never answered the telegram. [= 
think I shall go into the post-office and find out af it 
really went.” ? 
“Amelia said it a Dorothy repeed ‘Bhe, 


poor child, had never admitted as much to hercousin, —__ 
bat she was prepared for the worst that could — 


possibly happen. Dick’s long silence was beginning 


to tell upon her, and she was not recovering as 
quickly as might be desired; indeed, her doctorand —__ 
her cousin, too, were for the most part thoroughly ae 
uneasy about her, And yet, she had now been 
nearly six weeks without a line from Dick—Dick, who _ 


had left her with such fond words of love on his lips _ 


—ay, and in his eyes; Dick, who knew that now, of | is 
all times, letters would be of greater value than ever 
_ they had been, when she was left alone in her hour 
of trial. Yet he had not written, there was Mars 


ae suawer to the lege hoardings the ae ae aC te 


SUKPENEI, | 187 


there had come no word nor sign out of the dark 
biankness of hope and fear, doubt and despair which 
was gradually creeping over her. 

And, after all, she told herself, it was not to be 
wondered at if Dick had got a little tired of her—a 
stupid little thing like her, as ignorant as a child. 
What was there in her to keep such @ man as Dick 
faithful and true when the width of half the world 
was stretched between them? And then her eyes 
fell upon the bangle, which she always wore upon 
her left wrist, with its bright beacon of hope and 
trust, Dick’s last message to her—*Dinna Forget.” 

No, nothing should make her doubt him; he was 
overworked, ill, something had happened eo keep 
him from writing. 

“Don’t worry sheet it, dear Esther,” she said 


bravely. “Dick would not leave me without a letter 
without some good reason for it. Please don’t 


doubt him; you don’t know how good and kind and 
thoughtful he is, you don’t indeed, Esther.” 
“No, I don’t,” said Esther, drily; then with an 


outburst of tenderness very rare in one of her serene 


and composed nature, she cried, “Oh, don’t look 


at ‘me in that reproachfal way, darling. I want to 
__. believe this Dick of yours perfect—I do, dear. But 


when we go on day after day, week after week, and 


[see your anxious eyes, see your face getting whiter 

and _whiter—why, I can't help feeling angry at 

times, and suspicious, and—and as if I should like to 
_ kill somebody,” she ended passionately. 







‘Dorothy did not speak for a long time, but sat 
tracing the words on her bangle with a very thin and 











188 DINNA FORGET. 


“T know what you must think,” she said at last. 
« And I know what Dick’s silence must seem to you; 
but I promised to trust him whatever happens, and I 
always will. He gave me this the very last of all,” 






she cried, holding out her wrist—oh! so much too — | 


small for the pretty bangle now—towards her 
cousin, “and-he gave it as a ‘oken between us: ‘ Dinna 
Forget. I know it will be all right by-and-bye, 
Esther, I know it will; but wait a little longer, 
before you condemn him, just a little longer.” 
The piteous appeal went straight to Esther’ ee 


heart. “Well, I won’t mention him again, Dorothy —_ 


dear, not for another month. We will talk about | 
other things. Are you going for a drive to-day? _ 
The carriage will be here at three o'clock.’ 

“Just as you please, dear,” Dorothy answered 
listlesely. 

“TJ think you ought to go. It is good i you, and 
_ good for the boy too, and of course you wun't have - 
® carriage—at least, not such a carriage—alwaya.” 

“No,” said Dorothy. , 

Esther was busy making a wonderful bonnet for es 
the wonderful boy, and she pinned in several folds of 
lace and tried several effects before she spoke again. _ 
“Isn't it odd,” she remarked at last, “that Lord — 


Aylmer has left his carriage and horses and ta! mip 


in town all this time, when he is away ?” : : 
“Perhaps he never takes them 5. 7 town,” 
suggested Dorothy, _ 
“Perhaps not. i wey, it is very pleasant for us 
_ as itis,” Esther replied. “Well, I shall go and get 
ready,” and gathering up her bonnet and materials, 
she went out of the room, rong Big! alone, 


gi I LGN SiR t ieee a aa culate bikin ek ie au pagly mae by ag artis SNE WS ibs, | 
ene a teh) a a ed pe % Rae 


SUSPENSE 189 


- Almost immediately Amelia ‘Harris came in, 
bringing a bag filled with little vases of fresh flowers. 
“Qh!” said Dorothy, “those are the flowers from 
Aylmer’s Field. They are lovely. Is it a pretty 
place, Amelia? JI suppose you have often been 


_. there.” ~ 2 


“Yes, madam; I have been there once or twice,” 
Amelia replied, 

“It is a fine place, is it not? ” Dorothy asked. . 

eo A. very grand place, madam,” said Amelia, appar 7 
ently giving all her attention to the flower vases, 

“And Lady Aylmer—what is ‘she like? Is she 
nice—handsome ? ” 

“My lady is very handsome, madam,” ‘said Amelia, 
putting the last vase in its place, and coming to 
put a fold of the window curtain straight. “ Very 
. haughty and hard-like, but very handsome for all 
that.” : 
. “ Ah!” Bas 
| - Dorothy sat in silence fora minute or two. Amelia 
ip ee began to tidy the little table between the 
window and the fireplace. | : 
«Tt seems such a pity that——” Dorothy began, 
intending to say, “such a pity that Lord and Lady 
Aylmer did not get on well together.” Then she 
broke off short, suddenly remembering that it would 
not do to speak of Mord Aylmer’s private affairs to 
his valet’s wife, and also that she was not supposed 


-. to know more of them than Lord Aylmer himself 


~ would be likely to tellso new an acquaintance as she 


oe was. Amelia was looking at her with an expectant 
se expression, and Dorothy made haste to finish har 

















190 DINNA FORGET, 


“Tt seems such a pity that Lord Ayimer. has née 
heir,” she said confusedly. 


Amelia Harris not unnaturally, perbaps, misunder- pie 


stood her. 
“Lord Aylmer has an heir, madam,” she said 
quickly, thinking that Mrs, Harris was giving a keen 
eye tothe future. “His nephew, Mr, Richard Aylmer, 
is the heir—he is in India.” 
“Ah! yes, really,” said Dorothy. She felt very. 
sick and faint as she leant back among the cushions, ~ 
Amelia Harris thought she was disappointed, 
wheroaa, in truth, Dorothy was only nervous and 


upset at the sudden mention of her husband's ie 


nam 8, 
. Mr. Aylner ” Amelia continued, “ + ig in ‘is army— 
in the 40th Dragoons, A handsome young mene aniat, 
but wild—very wild.” 

Dorothy got up. “Yes, I dare say, but I ought : 


not to talk about him,” she said, her voice trembling, 


and her eyes misty with teara “I must go end 
dress for our drive.” ve 
She was sobbing passionately by the ne she got : 


into her own room. “ Dick, Dick,” she cried passion- sy 
ately, “it is hard to have to deny you like this, for it 


was denying you, though I said nothing. Why are 
you leaving me to fight my way through all these — 


difficulties alone? I won't believe that you are false “ - 
to me—not until you tell me so; but if it jis #0, you ne 


ought to tell me, you ought to tell me!” 


She was sobbing passionately, and the cade Ge 
tears ran down her poor pale face and over her little 
cold hands. They recalled her to herself, “6 No, I will 


be brave, I won't denbe you, my aa ‘There ie a i: 


Pac Ray aod 





something I don’t understand, I will wait a little 


longer.” 

‘She unlocked a drawer in her ‘witli and took 
out the large picture of Dick which she had hidden 
out of Lord Aylmer’s way. “My hes my dear love, 
I will trust you and believe you,” she murmured 
ae “7 will not give way again—I will be 


brave.” 


She heard ths carriage draw up with ‘the usual 
Jingle and dash, and hastily locked the portrait away 
oa Then she bathed her face in cold water, and 

ried to remove the, alas! unmistakable signs of teara 


Roa her eyes. Not very successfully, though she 


went out immediately afterwards, walked into the 


_ drawing-room, and found there—Lord Aylmer. 


“Qord Aylmer!” she cried, then went quickly 
across the room to him, “Oh! I am ao very glad to 
see fyou,” she cried, “I did not know you were in 


town. 


“I came up ‘task naght, dear lady,” he said, taking 


both her hands in his and speaking in a very soft 
and tender voice, “But you are ill, you-are not 
oe recovered, you are unhappy about something.” 


“1%” murmored Dorothy, evasively. “Oh! I am . 


not s0 very well—but——” : 
“But you have been crying,” said Lord Aylmer, 


eae il keeping her hands in his, 


“Perhaps,” Dorothy admitted. : 
« Perhaps—I am sure of it,” he returned. “But 
what is the matter? If there is anything that I can 


— do, you know that you have only to command me.” 







_ He laid stress on the words you know, which in any 


* other circumstances would have been enough to put 





r * ero a are : sig: . pit x APE ts OSS Fe ON peak iA bP RNS She Ra ein 3 
| 193 ‘ DINNA FORGET. — 


Dorothy on her guard. New, however, with her 
thoughts filled with Dick and his strange and 
inexplicable silence, she did not notice the unusual 
tone. “Oh!” she cried impulsively, “there is some- 
thing you could do for me if you would.” — . 

“What?” he said eagerly. “Tell me.”  — ~— 

But Dorothy did not tell him. She wanted to Bay, 
“T am Dick’s wife, I am so wretched and so unhappy 
at his absence. Let him come Home and I will love 
and reverence you for ever.’ 

That was what she wanted to say; but when te | 
was face to face with the opportunity, her COURAgS ; 
failed her, and she was afraid. | She 

“Tell me,” he said persuasively. pathy 

« No—not now—some day, perhaps,” she answered. : 

“You shall tell {me now,” said Lord Aylmer, — 
steadily. me 

He looked go Hangin and #0 depen that 
possibly, in another moment Dorothy would have 
given in and the mischief would have been out, but 
fortunately at that moment Esther Brand came in. he 

“Oh! is that you, Lord Aylmer?” she said 
pleasantly. 

Lord Aylmer dropped are hhanda with an 
inward curse ; but he turned to greet Miss. Brand | 
with his blandest smile and most amicable voice. Bey ee 
the opportunity was lost for that day. 2 

“May I jom youin your drive 1? he said, after a a a 
few minutes. ee 

“Why, surely ; it is your carriage,” coer 
Dorothy. Pere mae 

“Whenever you care ; use it, it. is. yourn” id 
Lord Aylmer ana t? : ee 





SUSPENSE, a eee, 


Bo it happened that the two ladies and Lord 
Aylmer went for a drive together. And whilst they 
were driving along Kensington Gore, a young man 
who -was walking with a lady and a little girl, 
recognised Lord Aylmer, and lifted his hat. Lord 
Aylmer looked annoyed, but he had no other choice 
than to raise his hat in return, 

“ Who is that? ” asked Esther, 

“Oh, some young man or other—I really cannot 
tell you,” he answered. , 

And Dorothy sat back in the carriage not feeling 
sorry that the young man had recognised Lord 
Aylmer, because in the lady walking beside him, she 
recognised the lady with the cold serene eyes who 
occupied the flat above her own. But Esther, who 
had a dumb and indefinable sense of something 
wrong, and had seen the look of intense annoyance 
on his face, chose that moment, of all others, to ask 
Lord Aylmer the one question which, though she did 
not know it, was the most awkward of any that she oe 
eould have asked him. : 

“Js Lady Aylmer in town?” she asked shea” 

- “Yes.” He was positively surprised into a, 
the admission. 

“Qh! then I suppose she will be calling on my 
eoudin before long ?” 

Esther scarcely put the remark in the formofa | 
question, and yet it was a question. Lord Aylmer” 


found himself in the face of a difficulty for which he 





was not prepared. Yet he made haste to answer, 
for Dorothy's cousin was emphatically a young 
woman who could not be ignored. —“T do not ae 





I een answer for Lady Aylmer in that respect,” he 








avin eavcn tN) Laney Late RUC ES IVa Aaa RUNCLen ATE encore ith uit NS Ca me Yul A asol Ney 
SRR Ake Sa seh ay : \ Rg * Pd wR 


194 coy DINNA FORGET, 


said, with his most punoiiioues air, “ She and I do het = 


in any way live the same life, do not visit in the same 


society, except so much as is unavoidable at Aylmer’s 
Field. In fact, we do not get on very well together 


—more is the pity—and she goes her way and I go 


mine, without one in any way trying to influence the _ 
other. It is just possible that Lady Aylmer may call © 
on Mrs. Harris; but, again, it is exceedingly probable _ 


that nothing would induce her to do ao. Really; I 
cannot answer for her one way or the other.” 

“Ohi I gee. What a pity it is,” said ‘Enther, 
quietly. 


bs Dorothy, my ‘dear she renienead sasdatly t ue A 
cousin when they had reached home and were — 


enjoying a cup of ae oe don't abc: Lord Aylmer; © . 


he is horrid.” 


cried. 


“Qh! Esther, and he haa bid, so kind ce Dorothy : : 


“Yes, I know; so kind that one ; wondes ae lied 2 


takes such a lot of trouble. But his very kindness 
makes me think of a nasty medicine covered up with __ 
syrup—you taste the syrup first and you get the full 

flavour of the nasty medicine prec ly and it taster ee 
all the worse and nastier for the syrup.” ee 


66 Why, Esther, that was just ele d, But ; - 


there Dorothy broke off short, remembering that : 3 


Esther did not know Diek’s identity. © 
. “Just what who said?” Esther asked. 


ee 


“J did not say anybody said anything,” or ae 


Dorothy, sharply; “but something of the same 


thought occurred to me once before. Still, he has : 
been lxndness itself, and I sees that 1 was ae 


unjust and wrong ABO him,” 





“Ho, Dorothy, my child; he’s a wicked old man, © 
end I don’t believe he’s your friend at all,” said 
Kether, impressively. ‘I feel as if he might be very 
dangerous to you, and I shall stay with you until 
this mystery about your husband is cleared ep one 
way or the other.” 

Dorothy heard some tone of her cousin’s voice 
which set her nerves ary ering: oF Mather, dear, it 
will be cleared up.” 

“Yes, yes, dear,” said Esther, contin eke 

But, all the same, she had little faith of that. She 
had set herself to try and find Richard Harris out, 
and she had found that there was not an officer of - 
that name -quartered at Madras. Dorothy had — 








. spoken of a good appointment and of Dick as a 


_ soldier; but there was no trace of him to be found. 
Out of a desire to spare her cousin until she was _ 
stronger, Esther kept this to herself, but her faith in 

_@ happy ending to all this mystery was very. very 








CHAPTER XIX, 
_ LIGHT WN DARKNESS, 


JN a veranda of the Government House at 


Madras, ‘Dick Aylmer sat ' smoking—smoking ss 


and brooding over the inexplicable tangle which we 
call life. , 

‘He had now been three months without one word 
from Dorothy. He did not know if the child had 


been born or not, if mother or child were living or 


dead, if Dorothy, his dear little *wife, were false or 
true. He had heard from her once after reaching 
India, when she had written in good spirits and with © 


many words of love for him, and in fondest anticipa- ae 


tion of their meeting in a few months’ time. | 
But after that letter there had been utter silence, 
He had written every week, he had telegraphed e 
several times, and to-day the mail was in again, 
and there was still no news. He had three of 


four letters of no importance on the chair beside & 


him, and the English papers, but nothing from 
her. He had had news of her—oh! yes—the news 
contained in that postscript of Lord Aylmer’s letter, 
and he had dismissed that from his mind at once ag 
an ill-natured lie, and for a week or two he had 
poarcely troubled himself about it. Yet as the 
‘weeks crept heavily by, each week bringing fresh 
laine that letter came back to his is Honghte 





liGHT IN DARKNESS. aay | 


over and over again. Could it be possible that his 
little girl—oh! no, no—nothing ~should. make him 


‘believe it, nothing, nothing. 


« 
ae 


And yet why did she not erie: She- must be at 
Palace Mansions yet, because his letters had never. 
been returned, nor yet his telegrams. Once or twice 
he had thought of writing to the landlord, or rather 
the office at which he had taken the flat, but he shrank 
from doing that, because he might be casting a slur upon 
Dorethy’s fair name, which she would never be able to 
shake off. © » 

No, that course would not do. He had thought 
and thought, he had turned it all over in his mind, 
and, excepting the idea of writing to a private detec- 
tive and putting the case in his hands, he could think of 
no way of solving the mystery. 

While he was sitting there brooding. over his 
thoughts, a@ young man dressed in white garments 
came through a doorway behind him, and pulled up 
a big chair a little nearer to Dick’s, in which he carefully 
disposed himself, 

** Really, Dick,’? he remarked, “I don’t call this 
half a bad place. Not so jolly as London, of course, but 
still not half bad.’? | ae 

*T hate it,” answered Dick shortly. 

The other, fresh from home, looked at him with 
‘amused pity. * Poor old chap! like Town better. Yes, 
of course. Why did you nae ones then, eh? You got 
the post that was meant for me.’ 

‘Tord Aylmer got the appointment and I had to — 
come—I had no choice. I shouldn’t be here if I had, 


you may be-sure,”’ Dick answered. 


‘Ah ! Lord Alymer. Queer old chap, eh?’ 











— - 198 DIANNA FORGET. 3 : 
“ Awful old brate,” said Dick with a righ . “but . 
he happens for the present to be the ruler of my fors . 
tunes, and a thorough-goin g old martinet he is too.” 
“Ah! I saw him the other day.” ! 
Dick looked up with some interest. 1 « Did you, a 
though? In Town?” < 
“ Yes.” * _ ae 
Now, Town to Dick ‘meant where Deratiee was, 
and for half an instant he had.a wild idea that this _ 
man might be able to give him news of her. It died 
almost in its birth, however, and he said indifferently i. 
enough, “ Were you in town long?” _ = 
“A sortnight altogether. My sister lives i in town, = 
you know.” i : 
“No, I didn't—didn’t know you had’ a sister.” 
“Oh, yes; she’s a widow—has a little flat” 
“A flat!” Dick pricked up his ears. “Yeo, ae 
Where?” : a 
a - “In Kensington. Palace Mansions aly called* = : 
e “In Palace Mansions,” Dick managed to repeat, Becks 
ee The whole world seemed to be blotting out ina 
strange and insidious fashion, and it was two Cc 
three minutes before Dick came to his full eners: a 
again, — ne 
“I don't think she ought to live there,” Marston Ree 
went on, not looking at Dick, but attending to his 
pipe. “Living alone except for the child You 
never know what the other people are, don % you 
_ know. Now, there’s a pretty little woman ged > < 
the flat below her oe 
“What number is your sister's” Dick shed in oe 
harsh, strained voice. _ ee Soke 
ig “No. 6," Marston soswered, 











~ gaid. 





LigET IN DARKNESS, 7 | . ce 199 


bine tae Eat ie ae Bud ier rhe eae fie tens 3 


in the flash of an instant Dick had dade: a wild ie ‘ 
_ ealculation. he he meant Dorothy by “ae Pretty ee 


little woman.” “Well?” he said. © 


He felt sick and faint and cold ; he knew that n now oF 


he was on the eve of news, and ‘Marston’ s tone had 
made him dread to hear it. | a : 
Marston, all in ignorance, went on spoabing. 
“Such a pretty girl. I saw her several times— _ 
fairish hair and delicate-looking, almost like a lady. 
Well, she went to live in the flat below my sister's, 
and was very quiet. Husband came and went. My 
sister fancied it was a bit suspicious, and was careful 
to get no acquaintance with her. Well, for some 
months all went smoothly and quietly enough, then 
she heard, through her servants, I suppose, that 
Mrs. Harris's husband had gone off to India, and 
that she was going out later when the child was 
born.” 
“Was Hide a child?” Dick ae He was trem- 


bling so that he could scarcely force his es to frame _ of 


the words. 

Marston noticed nothing, but went on with ie | 
: story. “A child. I don’t know if there was one 
| then—there’ sone now. I’veseenit.” 
Dick sat mall by a mighty Shor vey Well? ” he 





“Well, only a fow days after the poor chap ha i, 








& gone, my sister eaw her handed into a smart carriage ® 
by an old gentleman—heard the footman call 


him ‘ my lord ’"—pair of high-stepping horses—all in 


ae grand style. And now that carriage is always there, 
end who do you think the old gentleman is?” 


a a “How should I know us i answered Dick, who wae 


SiR Nibetaa ee Me: Ek er gah esSol a TN git URIBE ER bana seh pear canal tit Nir BOM RAR C a gre arg ae aN tt AU het MRS 
CEA en ria rc oe pn eh eer a Se bie PE cago vote cA ES Bees We eee aaa 
ae ine! +f ; cea tu 2 Be see 








200 — DINNA FORGET. | 


going over and over the postscript of his anole 
letter. 

“ You’ know when I tell you,’ ea Novae ith? 
a chuckle; “it was your old uncle, Lord Aylmer.” 

“ Impossible !” Dick burst out. : 

“Not impossible at all, my dear chap,” said 
Marston coolly. “I saw her driving with him 
myself, and jolly wretched she looked over it. I 

must say I pitied the poor devil out here; but I 
_ dare say he is having a very good time all the same. 
Eh? What?” he asked of a native servant, who had 
noiselessly approached him. 





my 


66 My lady wishes to speak to you, Sir,” said the ee 


man, who spoke very good English. 
“Qh! all right, I'll come,” and Marston oibiae 


leaving poor Dick to fight his battle of pain alone, 


So that was it, after all. No, he wouldn’t believe ee 
and yet—yet—how could he help believing it? 
Marston had told him the plain unvarnished facta, 
not knowing that Dick Aylmer and Mrs. Harris's 
husband were one and the same man. So this was why _ 
his uncle had suddenly taken a guiding hand in his 
_ fortunes—this was why he shipped him off to India, at 
what might be called a moment’s notice. “He had. 
seen my Dorothy and wanted me out of the way, and 


ae , : 


Ata Lies 


ase Buia 


he got me out of the way, and my darling—but no, ~ a G . “ 
no—I will believe pet ome until I have acon Ce 


her.” 


determine what would be the best to do, what would — 
be the best course to take; trying, too, to unravel — 


ae 


For half an hour he sat in deep thought, er . a 






the rest of the tangle, part of faith had been opened Piss 


i out before him, But that was an ae task for” 


Seeeeatte oe 








ae key me? a pr One ORE TN ete ELK RE eM tA SORT Ny! 
Pr ener re te a ee SS 


“LIGHT oN DARKNESS, | 801 


, +him without farther information, and he began to 
- wonder how he could get home, and how arrange 
a plausible excuse to Lord Skevversleigh. He must | 
go home, that was certain ; evidently his letters and _ 
telegrams had been of no effect, probably they had 
_ never reached her at all, Why—perhapsthat wicked 
ald savage had found means of stopping them, and 
in that case Dorothy perhaps was fretting her heart 
eut, wondering why he never wrote—perhaps—well, 
perhaps the child’s birth would be in the papers. In 
spite of silence and mystery she might, as a last 
resource, have put that in, in the hope of catching 
his eye. 
- He began hurriedly to unfasten the paper lying on 
the top of the little heap beside him. Ah! the — 
Standard. “Abbington— Bowes—ade—Duchess 
of Dreamland—Hingston—” No, there was no © 4 
little babe called Harris in the short list. oe 
He put down the paper in dire disappointment. _ 
Poor Dick! he was getting so weary of being dis. 
appointed that each blow seemed to fall more and 
- more heavily. And then just as he was letting the 
paper fall to his knee, two words caught his eye—two > 
words— Dinna Forget.” With a great throb at his 
heart, Dick caught the paper back jigain. Yes, it 
was a@ message from Dorothy, right ou! of the depths 
of poe: 
_- “Dinna Forget. To Dick.—This long mlcnee @ 
killing me—why do you not write? For God’ssake _ 
_ pat me out of suspense one way orthe other. D.A.” 
ee For fall five minutes Dick never moved, thenhe _ 
ee reverently took off his hat and thanked God that He 
Boe hed made the way plain at last. 





eo. 





i . vee eld man who was the: jet of ae ‘house 





gail for his native. country, hurrying off the 


Yet, though the way Vv was plato, it was nots an n easy : 


one. It would be difficult for him to get away from 


Madras, and neither letters nor telegrams were 2 
evidently of any use, since Dorothy had not received _ 


those that he had sent. Decidedly, he must go 
home, whatever happened he must go home, even if 


would not get. a 


As soon as Lord eavveuioiel retimod to the ‘ ‘ 





he went the length of sending his papers in and 
trusting to chance and good fortune to be able to _ 
make some sort of a living enough to keep Dorothy 
and the child. But in any case home he must go, to __ 
set his wife’s mind at rest, and to force that old 
sinner on to his knees to sue for the mercy which he 


house, Dick sent. to ask if he could see him, and to ~ 


I have in the world.” 


Now, it happened that fea Skeuvelslet, hese” | 


him he explained something of the position of affairs, fe 
eading with, “And I See go io if it costs me all We 


x En 


ie liked Dick very well, had particularly wished to 


make Marston his military secretary, and had he 
Ween able to refuse his old friend Aylmer, he would 
certainly have done so. There were, however, : 
certain pages of past history which practically ; 
precluded this possibility, but they did not preclude © : 
- him from allowing Dick to throw up his appoint- 
ment and betake himself home as soon ag he liked; 
and with the very next steamer Dick said good- : 


bye to India and to Government House, and se 


boat at Brindisi and journeying homewards ‘over. 
land, like an avenging spirit with whom the 
















LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 203 


would have a very hard reckoning and but seant 
quarter. 

For always in his four there was that piteous appeal, 
‘‘ This long silence is killing me—for God’s sake put me 
out of suspense, one way or the other.” 








CHAPTER XX. 
HOME 


Y dint of hard travelling night and day, Dick x 
accomplished his journey home from India in 


__ fifteen days—a short time in which to traversesucha __ 
distance; but oh, how long it seemed to Dick’sanxious 





heart and feverish imagination! The fast P. and O. 
boat seemed to be standing still, the paseage through 
the Suez Canal was maddening, although they went — 





straight through, which was as lucky as unusual. 
Then there was the seemingly endless delays in 
- getting off the steamer and into the train at Brindisi, _ 


and when at last they were fairly off, the train — 
seemed to crawl along no faster than the boat. Yet, — 
in spite of all this impatient and vexatious amxiety, — 


Dick made an unusually quick journey home, and _ 


in fifteen days from touching at Bombay, he found _ 
himself walking along the plasiorm: of the Victoria ae 
station, ee 


It was hard on the time of Christine “acowe of | | : 


people were hurrying to and fro, most of them with : 


that buey and impatient look upon their faces which ae 


even the dullest persons generally assume at the 


approach of the festive season. But Diok did not # : 
trouble himself much about them. He had very little - 


luggage to impede him, all his heavy baggage having _ 


been left in the steamer to come by ses—in bit) sa ee 





had only his ordinary portmanteau and his hat-box, _ oe 


@ couple of rugs and his stick, all of these he had 


with him in the carriage, so that he was almost the — ee 


first passenger to get his luggage passed. 
“Cab, sir?” asked his porter. 
“Yes, hansom,” Dick answered. 


The man shouldered the portmanteau and went 


off to the cab-rank, Dick following; but he was not 
destined to reach it without interruption, for as he 
_ crossed the less crowded part of the platform, he 


heard an exclamation of surprise and roan himeelf . 


face to face with Lady Aylmer. 


“Dick, Dick, is it you?” she cried, starmg at 


him. 

Dick put out his hands to her. “Yes, Lady 
Aylmer,” he gaid; “T'vecome back. ['m in troubie 
—horrid trouble!” ae 

“‘ My dear boy, how?” she cried. 
- Dick looked about him, he was anxious not to waste 
® moment in getting to Palace Mansions, “You are 


going away,” he said uneasily. “I amkeeping you 
It is a long story, and I am anxious to get home to = 


my wife.” 


“Your wife, Dick §” cried Lady Aylmer, opening _ 


her eyes wider than ever. “ Why—but there, I 


won't keep you. Come with me, I have the brougham 


-here. I’ve been secing Constance Seymour off, she 
has been staying a few days with me. I will drive 
you where you like, the cab can bring your luggage.” 
“That is awfully good of you,” said Dick. “I can 
tell you the whole story as we go along. But first 


tell me where is he?” : 
OF ccc tes with « significant nod. 












6 ‘DINNA, kroner. ie vos ube oS 


«There is somebody, and I don’t think he has been 

successful this time. Something is going on, and 

his temper is fiendish, and I’m afraid, my dear ee 

he will take your return badly.” | a 
«J don’t think, Lady Aylmer,” answered Dick a 

steadily, “that he will find himself in a position to 

make any remarks on the subject. Then P haba don't 

know what he is after just now?” | 

“Not in the least. And I don’t choose to ask the 

servants, though I dare say they know all ‘about ity 
she answered. : 

“Then,” Dick said, “ J will tell you. eS I Sice” 
this window? I feel the change of climate a little... 
Thanks. Well, Lady Aylmer, I have been married : 
more than a year, and he saw my wife, and—and did — 

her the honour to admire her. He sent me out of the — 

way to India, and look at this,” opening wis aie a 
book and showing her a scrap of newspaper. “I have 
not heard from my wife for more than three Sire 
pe then I found this—a pitiful message from her to 
I have written, telegraphed, eaten my very — 
Lo out, and he has stopped all communication 
between us. She is breaking her heart believing 
that I am false to her—I who live only forher.” 

And when yon meet my lord—there will be a . 
reckoning,” Lady Aylmer said inguiringly, = =—s_ 
i “Yes,” answered Dick, grimly, “there will het a 
reckoning, and I don’t think Lord” Aylmer wil 
venture to question me about my return home.” 
Lady Aylmer drew a long breath. “As to. ai 
my dear boy, time will show. Lord Aylmer is very 
_ fertile in excuses and in audacity. He very possibly 
_ may pool turn the tables on sian act the virtuous 






















eer 





01 


ancl, and get the | better of 3 you. Be prepared for s ' 
7 anything.” ee 






“He cannot ‘explain intercepted letters pas tele Z j a a 


- grams,” cried Dick, 


“Lord Aylmer is capable of explaining anything! : - 


Lady Aylmer answered with conviction. 


‘They very soon reached the road in which Pale or 


_ Mansions may be found, and as the brougham drew 


up at the entrance to the building, Lady Aylmer — Joe 


uttered an exclamation of surprise. “My dear boy, 
you will catch him in the act—that is our carriage.” _ 


_ The servants were huddled up in furs over their _ ae 


- gorgeous liveries, but Dick knew them instantly. 
_ They, too, recognised Lady yee: and touched their : 
hats, , 
aS Go. straight in,” ake a 4 Whieh are the 

windows?” 

_* To the right of the oor? Dick anes eed. | 
_ They were scarcely an instant, and Dick felt j in hia 

cacket, “I took my latch-key by accident,” he whie- 


pered. “I little thought I should find itso useful.” __ : 4 
_ The next moment he had opened the door, when 


- Amelia Harris hearing him, came quickly out from =~ 
the kitchen, and fell back aghast to see her ladyship 
and my lord’s heir, Mr. Aylmer. ce 
“ You here,” said Dick in disgust. “Not one word 

- —at your peril.” _ Poe. 
_ Mr, Aylmer—my lady ——” she began, when Lady 


ge Aylmer stopped her by a wave of her hand. 


_ “Go back to your kitchen, woman,’ she said sohily, 
“Dick, is there any other entrance to this house? 
Ee Not Then lock that door. We shall require thas 

eke woman later, pete 











DINNA. FORGET, on a. 


She pointed imperiously to ‘the door out of which ce 
Amelia had just come, and there was no choice but _ 
obedience. All this had passed in a whisper, and 
Lady Aylmer said in the same tone to ere “ Which a 
is the drawing-room ¥ ” : 

“That—the door is not closed.” 

‘Ts there a screen?” 

% Y eB. 9? 4 
“Push it open,” she said. oe 

And even as Dick cautiously did so, they heard ve 
Lord Aylmer’s voice speaking to some one within. 
“But, Dorothy, my darling, my dear little ee ve 
- do you refuse me? Is there nothing E oan o6 to . 
propitiate you?” = ae 
_ “Nothing,” Dorothy’s a soft voice spoplied en <I 

wish you would go away—lI have mistaken you all 
along. I thought you were so kind and good and — 
fatherly ; but Isee my mistake now. I suppose I 
ought to be angry with you, only it seems ridiculous ~~ 
to be angry in that wey with an old gentleman like ; 
you.” us 
“I am net old, Dasotliy: I should always be 

young if you cared | for me,” he replied, _ on 
Oh, I dare say,” answered Dorothy, nciternty 

_ “)put I am married, and I am very miserable.” St 

“Let me make you happy ?” he urged. ve ae 

“Could you give me the moon if I ocled: for iv” _ 
she asked with soft scorn. “Do not talk nonsense, a Z 
Lord Aylmer. Go home and try to realise that you — 
have mistaken a good woman and a faithfal wife for — 
something else ; and try to remember, ‘too, that 
you persist in your useloas enter you become. 











87 shall never give you ‘ape he eried: | 
- €No,’’ said Dorothy wearily, “‘because you can- 
not—you can not give up what you have never had. — 
I am nothing, and have never been anything but a 
wish to you. I never shall be—never,’’ with a sudden 
gust of passion. ‘‘ Not if you layed on your kpegs from’ 3 
now till crack of doom.’’ ue 
‘¢ And you think I shall take this answer?” he cried 
furiously. | : 
Tam sure of it,’? said Dorothy, quietly. “You 
can not help yourself, I have no other to give you.”? 
~ . You think I will leave you—to go dreaming on 
_2bout the fellow who betrayed you and deserted you, who 
has left yen for months without sign or word, who never — 
_ even told you his real name, who—’”’ 
Married me,’ cried Dorothy, goaded into Scloag. os 
ng her secret at last. ‘‘I am Dick’s wife—I shallbe 
Lady Aylmer some day.”’ : “oath ee 
‘‘ Damnation!’’ cried the old savage ina fury. : 
- “My boy is your heir, my lord,’’ she cried trium- 
-phantly, ‘‘so you see how likely, how very likely the 
other arrangement is.”’ 
_ Then she broke down and began to cry piteously. 
Dick went a step further into the room. 
Dorothy,” said the old lord, ‘‘I beg of you not to 
ery like that. I will do anything, everything to 
make you happy—I.will settle five thousand a year 
- on you,’’ at which Lady Aylmer spread out her hands 
expressively to Dick, for the old lord had ‘‘ cried 
poor ’’ for many and many a year! ‘* What! still no? 
Dorothy, be reasonable, think! You have compro- 
mised yourself with me—I have been here continually 
«my carriage stands at your door for hours. Dick 








o 910 . Ce FORGER, 









_ will never come back, never—I_ cise ‘hints 80 well 
and even if he did, he would never believe you - 
against all the evidence which could be brought tg 

against you. Why, think of your position now—you 
are alone in the house with me, except fora woman —_ 
who is my servant—my tool. Your cousin has gone __ 
away for two days, your old servant is away too. At a 
this moment you are absolutely at my mercy.” eget 

“Oh! no, no!” ach eka a8 if struggling os 
against him. | 

“ At my mercy,” went on the wioked' sneering voice, 
“and I have no mercy ae Aa 
ee Nor I,” thundered Dick, , dashing the soreea . oe 
aside, as 
_ He had his uncle by the throat ere , Dorothy, i in key ae 





surprise, could gasp out his name. “You scoundrel! 


sort of fashion towards the door. 


want to know the meaning of the extraordinary 


you villain!” he cried, and shook him as a terrier oo 
_ shakes: a rat, flinging him igi ees on A ae 
lounge. — ye 

“My love! my sweetheart!” he cried ee oe 
turning to Dorothy. “Ifgot your poor little pitiful © 
- message at last. My poor little love, dear little wife, 
. there has been nothing worse between | us than that ee 
__ wicked old sinner there.” — =F 

“Dick! Dick!” was all that she could say. be 

‘During this, Lord, Aylmer had very carefully and 
eee gathered himself together and got on to. his. 
feet, when he cautiously made his ad in a + blind 









“Not so quickly, my lord,” said a voice—one- “thal 
he knew well, “you have to reckon with me now. I 


= eles which es made, Sled now ‘to hs ee 








e «wife 3 if you oan settle five thousand 1 a “year ea : 
Mrs. Harris, you. can settle it with equal ease “upon a 






pe 


‘Mrs. Aylmer, and if you wish to keep this morning’s 


oe surprise a secret, with all ita pleasant little additions — 


of evidence, suppressed letters, intercepted telegrams, Pe 


lies, and dishonour, that. is the price which you. will 4 a 
_ pay for the privilege.” ae 
She stood looking at him, a commanding, ee os 
‘ible, haughty presence, secure in her own rectitude a 
and in her marriage-settlements; and for the first 
~ time in his life, the savage old lord quailed before oe 


ae ‘I—I—you’ ve done me, all of you,’ he mated ey 
indistinctly, “that little jade the gleverest: of all Fe 
But five thousand a year—l’ll be— Lae 
long dreadful silence: he caught at his throat with 


” there was a 





palsied fingers, stared blindly round, and fell. 1 back . 


wards on to the lounge again. 


_ Lady Aylmer was the first to reach him, “Take a 
your wife ones: Dick. These fits are most distress _ 


ing to see,” she said. “Oh, yes; he has had them 


before—often. Get me some brandy and waters oe 
: but keep your wife away.” me 
She went to the window and fe it ‘open. oe 
“Charles,” she called, “tell Jones to go for the 
_ nearest doctor at once, and you come in here. Your 


lord i is in a fit.” 


Yes, my lady,” said Chileon then added to a 
: Barker, “Old codger i ina fit. Ithought there’d be 
pretty shine-up between my lady and Mrs. Sane cS 
to say nothing of Grosmont Road,” 


“Ah!” said Barker, wisely, “it was time my lady os 


know) whet was Pegoing on.” 









“Bk 7 DINNA ‘FoReRt, 






—Br Franklin was soon on the sbst bub he © 4 
shook his head and said Lord Aylmer had better be. 
got into bed at once. ‘Very serious. We will try 
all remedies PORNO but I must tell you frankly it is a 
very grave case.’ 

‘Yes, we understand,” said Lady Alymer, call 
‘* Perhaps for general satisfaction we had better send. 


off for REE own doctor; but you will stay and meet him, iG 


of course.’ 


Lady Aylmer rang the bell, which was answered by a 
Amelia Harris, who looked ene out of her : 


Certainly, Lady Alymer. I shall be most BRED to 
_ do so,”’ he replied. 


So Jones was sent off for Sir ie Tiffany, and” 


senses. 


_ “Oh! Dresser,” said Lady Aylmer, speaking to her 7 3 


by her real name, ‘‘ I want you. Come here, ie 


“Yes, my lady.’” | 
**I always knew that you were a eHAFon DRY un- 


"principled woman,’ said the lady coldly, “ but I did not. 
_ think you would descend to stealing letters.” : 
© My lady!” 


Not one word! Lord Aylmer, you see, has had _ 
“ a fit and they are going to get him into bed. If your e.= 
_ value your liberty,’’ significantly, ‘‘ you will do what beds rg 
-ean to make ae useful. ”’ 
- Yes,-my lady,’”? meekly, and with an ‘eet fey 
knocking at her heart that, if she was lucky enough — 
ite keep out of prison, Lord Aylmer would die and she 
would never get a farthing of the money for which she: 


Oe 











4 had risked her Liberty ey by this, time eyolen to. 


' thousand pounds. 





ve 
4 
. 
yy 
% 
ee 
a 
Nae 
fie 
FP 
en 
wy 
5 ake 
a 


Truly, a more meer Woman ‘than “Amelia See 





= the child, and take her now, Dick. The carriage ie 


Dorothy, yet her heart was heavy at the. dis- — 









+e aap tera ik gehen es 
d es rie ee ae 
* i HOME, 
‘ SO eee 4 


ise Dresser, atari Hane, did not live i in Londe 
town that day. 

“ Dick,” said Lady Aylin walking into the little 
dining-room, while the doctor, Charles, and Dresser 
were carrying the unconscious old lord into Dorothy’ ® 
bedroom, “your wife cannot in any case stop here. 
Oh, is that the baby? Whatalove! But tell me, > 
would it not be best for her to take the child to © 
_ Belgrave Square? I suppose you have a HESS, me 
my dear?” oe 
“Oh, yes. Esther would make me have & ure,” <8 " 
Dorothy answered, a 
“Then just take what you are likely to want for 2 
the night and let the nurse pack up a few things for 


atill here. Tell them who ske is, of course; and see 

_ that they make her comfortable. {¢ is better for her 
_ to be out of the way of this,” : 
“T would rather stop, Lady Aylmer,” edad 
- Dorothy. “Don’t part me from Dick so soon, for 
he would have to come back here. I will stayin © 
this room. I will keep: quite out of the way, indeed : 

‘I will.” eo 
_ Very well—very well,” said my lady, amit an 
She was very considerate and tender with — 





~ ologures of the past hour. It was a terrible end a 
even to an unhappy marriage, and Lady Aylmer, oS 
_ remember, had been married for love. a 

Well, that exciting day dragged iteelf away. : ‘ 
Dorothy would have Dick send off a telegram to — 
Esther and Barbara, announcing his return home. — 
‘Wee Barbara bad recovered yery dowly from ber _ 













tory ‘ordered. off to. Bosraemoth ~ 
had taken her. 5 | 


the fire talking. And Lady nies ests yn oe 
the bed of him who had lived so wicked a life, and 
prayed with heart and soul for that mercy which he 
- had never troubled to ask for himself, and could not 
ask, now that it was too ate : 














Ly * 


: ae Raipoe All in vain! The life wii mio a 
: been a noble one, but which had been ee é 





See her manner what find hapened 
if Lady Aylmer, i is it——?"” 








arms and kissed her, 
Lady Aylmer now.” 





4 ‘My dear she sai ‘6 0 ane 






























CHARLES 


3 NOR 2. 5 
3 Paid For! (Her Ransom), 
4 Elaine. = 


6 On Love’s Altar (A. Wast- 

»ae <>: ed Love). 

1 Better than Life. 

= 17 Married at Sight, 

18 Once in a Life. 

19 A Life’s Mistake. 

20 She Loved Him, 

21 The Marquis. 

> 23 "Twas Love’s Fault 

eS (Nance), 

| aA Queen Kate. : 

> 25 His Love So True (Leslie’s 

eee Loyalty). 

26 In Cupid’s Chains. _ 

27 Just a Girl (A Strange 

oan - Duchess): 

ea 28 ‘The Outcast of the Family 

{6 29 The Mistress of Court 
=» Regna (Claire). Illus- 

= trated. 

& 30 A Coronet of Shame. 

‘ 81 An Innocent Girl (Her 

_.- Heart’s Desire). Illus- 
ee trated. 







poe fee ces 


en ee _ Address 


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4 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 





“No. Title Pages | No, Title Pages 
62 The Executor. ...........473 | 1640 Ways of Providence,....215 
189 Valerie’s Fate........... 1641*Home Scenes........5... 216 


229 Maid, Wife, or Widow?.. 
‘286 Which Shall it Be?...:..846 
‘839 Mrs, Vereker’s Courier 


Wards hese Sea 
490 A Second Lites cate. 390 
DOLLA C DAN o. heve uh Bou ne 178 
794 Bouton’ s Bargain........ 205 
797 Look Before You Leap..234 
805 The Freres.............. 630 
806 Her Dearest Foe......:. 473 


814 ae Heritage of Lang- 
815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird... 
900 By Woman’s Wit........ 207 
997*F orging the Fetters, and 


The Australian Aunt....166 
4054 Mona’s Choice. ..2....... 800 
1057 A Life Interest.......... 431 
1189 A Crooked Path......... 390 
1199 A False Scent........... 
1867 Heart Wins............. 262 
1459 A Woman’s Heart....... 894 
1571. Blind Fate... 2.2. ..20.0.. 835 


.2158 What Gold Can Not Buy. 
Mrs. Alderdice. 
#082 An Interesting Case..-.. 366 


Alison. 


481*The House That Jack 
Built esa ee Soe 


Hans,Christian Andersen. 
1314 Andersen’s Fairy Tales. .3880 


W. P. Andrews. 


1172*India and Her Neighbors.285 
FE. Anstey. 

69 Vice Versa... vo... 2. 2N5 6: 221 
225 The Giant’s Robe........ 280 
003 The Tinted Venus. A 

#arcical Romance...... 


819 A #allen Idol. . 

4616 The Black Poodle, ‘and 
Other Tales. -s.......6. 239 

G. W. Appleton. 

1346 A Terrible Legacy.. .... 804 

2004 Frozen Hearts........... 
Sir Edwin Arnold, 

7960 The Light of Asia....... 

Edwin Lester Arnold. 


1685 The Wonderful Advent- 
ures of Phra the Phe- 


nician .....° 2. Fy teenie 347 

TT. S. Arthur. 
4337* Woman's Trials....:.. .216 
1636 The Two Wives... . 184 
1638*Married Life....... .214 


1649*Seed-Time and Harvest.216 
1652* Words for the Wise......215 
1654*Stories for Young House- 


keepers.......... pea sie: 212 
1657* Lessons In Life. . Rees A ey 
1658*Off-Hand Sketches...... 216 
1660 The Tried and. the 

TPEMIDLOG Aas yer cee sat 212 


2164 Ten Nights in a Bar-room 
and What I Saw There. 


Sir Samuel W. Baker. 
267 ane and Hound in Cey- 


Ce eee ee 


in Cey loa HIME RS anes Sa aN ti 
1502 Cast Up by the Sea...... 410 
Rr. M. Ballantyne. 
89 The Red Eric..... AA than Se 178 
95 The Fire Brigade........ 170 
96 Erling the Bold.......... 184 
772 Gascoyne, the Sandal- 
Wood Traders coca 259 
1514 Deep Down.............. 420 
Honore De Balzac. 

776: PETE GOMob vo. Wola es 212 
1128, Cousin Pons........ eres si 
1318 The Vendetta........ Om 
2189 Shorter Stories.......... 186 
2231 The Chouans....../..... 290 

S. Baring-Geuld. 

(87. CourtcRoyal: ot.s5 eg 403 

878 Little Tu’penny.......-. 
TIP DEM V-G oeic ght faucets eacaeee! 283 
1201*Mehalah: A Story of the 

<* Salt Marshes...) ....2%. 270 
1697*Red Spider... .......... 222 
1711 The Pennyeomegqnicks...448 
17638. John: Herring: iccieseess 445 
1779* Arminell.... 2... Fis aitis Fae 519 
1821*Urith...... Sane SOS Ae +. .438 

Frank Barrett. 

986 The Great Hesper...... 
1138 A Recoiling Vengeance.. 
1245*Fettered for Life........ 813 
1461 Smugegler’s Secret....... 


1611 Between Life and Death.292 
1750 Lieutenant Barnabas....292 


J. M. Barrie. 
1896 My Lady Nicotine. ......20€ 
1977: Better Deadi 7 oe Abe. 
2099 Auld Licht Idylls....... 
2100 A Window in Thrums... 
2101 When a Man’s Single... 


| 2167 A Tillyloss Scandal...... 164 


25 Cents a Copy, or Five Copies for %1, Post-paid. 


2091 Vashti and: Esther...... 


POSSE CG sash hu cea ae wk ardent 


1646 Charles Atichester.. . .. 833 
1589*The Sergeant’s Legacy ..342 
97 Allin a Garden Fair.... 


- 146*Love Finds the Way,and 


| 1055 Katharine Regina........ 


_ 1247 The Lament of Dives... 
1378 They Were Married. By 

















































Basil. 

No. Title Pages 
344*** The Wearing of the — 
Green 2 year ea ede 275 
585*A Drawn Game......... 304 

G. M. Bayne. 
IGIS*Galaskis ak ees 237 

Aune Beale. 
He donee 239 

199*Fhe Fisher Village...... 


Alexander Begg. 
1005* Wrecks in (bbs: bea nee 


By the Writer of nh oe s 
Letters.”’ 


E. B. Benjamin 


1706*Jim, the Parson... .... , 244 
1720*Our Roman Palneee ale oOU 


A. Benrimo. 


EK. F. Hekaoi. 
oe POCO ae ee eons ee ae 213 


E. Berger. 
EB. Berthel. 


Walter Besant. 


dame Uncle lack cere. ih ca 
140 A Glorious Fortune..... 


‘Other Stories. By Besant 
BHATRICOS aavaceees 6 

~ 280 Dorothy Forster......... 2838 
824 In Luck at Last......... 


882 Children of Gibeon pee 459 
904 The Holy Rose.......... 
906 The World Went Very 
Well Then........ eet ataie 366 } 
980 To Call Her Mine........164 


1065*Herr Paulus: His Rise, 
His Greatness, and His 


1151*¥or Faith and Freedom. .356 
1240*The Bell of St. Paul’s. .. .352 
| 244 


Walter Besant and Jas. 
i ne 


1413 Armorel‘of Lyonesse. 
1462 Let Nothing You Dismay! 


- Paget® 


-itle onl 
40 


No. 


1530 When the Ship Comes’): 
Home. By Besant and | : 

RiCGe 4 VF eet a reedans aah ea 7 

1655 The Demoniac. .:: ... "gay Hehe, Saga 

1861 St. Katherine’s: uy" ‘the i ee oe 


Toweru sviniveee cares, Oy Sel ae 


MW. Betham-Edwaris. 
273 Love and Mirage; or, ‘The® 
Waiting on an Island.. 
579*The Flower of Doom, and 3 
Other Stories........... sy eb 
594*Doctor Jacob SS ae ie 





1023*Next of Kin—Wanted...220 
1407*The Parting of the Ways.390 
1500*Disarmedy: seas 203 

1543*For One and the World..340 
-1627*A Romance of the Wire.192 


Jeanie Gwynne Bettany. 


1810 A Laggard in Love...... 189 a 
|: Biornstierne Bjornson, — a 
1385 Arne.. fe tae £ 
11888 ‘The Happy" Boy. He 
William Black. 
1Yotande: 2085 22.028 478m 
18 Shandon Bells...... ote DESA 
21 Sunrise: A Story of These. ‘ 
PAMES SF Ee tang tewans ats 32 at ; 


23 A Princess of Thule.. 8844 
39 In Silk Attire. : RRA IARI 316+ 
44 Macleod of Dare. 294. * 
49 That Beautiful Wietoh. (215 ? 
50 The Strange Ad) ventures 





of a Phaeton..... A ie 372 
70 White Wings: A ¥ abt. 
ing Romance...... hile ROR Se She 
78 Madeap Violet......... 4310 — PEER. SI 
81 A Daughter of Heth.. ..386.' agement: 
124 Three Feathers......... OE Jo Cage 
125 The Monarch of Mincing . fe ieee ad 
Wane. 5 Pe aes oe Q71 bre 
126-Kilmeny,,.. ooo ae ees 240 
/138 Green Pastures and Pic- 
Gadilly cera an a 391 


265 Judith Beh senanen: Her’ 
Love Affairs and Other 


Adventures,. ..........260. 
472 The Wise ee of In- 
verness. 


|. 627 White Heather... WG eg 
-1143*The Inner House........183 | 


898 Romeo and J uliet: A Tale 

of Two Young Fools...162 
962 Sabina Zembra ......... 454 
1096 The Strange Savenoies 

cf a House-Boat.. + OBR, 
11382 In Far Loechaber:....... 284 
1227 The Penance of John 


oor eee Coe eee etree 








iene 


6 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 





No. Title Pages 


1259 Nanciebel: A. Tale of 
Stratford-on-Avon.. .... 
1268 Prince Fortunatus....... 421 
4389 Oliver Goldsmith......-. 
1394 The Four Macnicols, and 
Other Vales. 25 ess 
1426 An Adventure in Thule.. 
1505 Lady Silverdale’s Sweet- 
CATO e SS Gee erent 
1506 Mr. 
M. 
1725 Stand Fast, Craig-Roy- 
SHOT Le eee ceer oe ec 408 
1892 Donald Ross of Heimra..367 


R. D. Blackmore, 


eilelie igre €:6.0 BIOL@ire teow ihie selene 


67 Lorna Doone...........- 454- 


427 The Remarkable History 
of Sir Thomas Upmore, 
dete gl agenda BANS aN Shi 210 
. 615 Mary Aner ley 
625 Rae or, My Father's 


SNA (ents Oe Bs ees arene 896 
629 ne the Carrier... 333 
630 Cradock Nowell......... 568 
631: Christowell.,...0...%%.. 458 
6382 Clara Vaughan.........: 489 
633 The Maid of Sker........ 507 
636 Alice Lorraine.......... 494 
926 Springhaven’....0.2.0..- 
1267 Kit and Kitty... ...2... 419 |. 


: Isa Blagden. 
“05 The Woman I Loved. and 
the Woman Who Loved 
WE ieee: siearie tee ahsomree 
Edgar Janes Bliss. 
2102 The Peril of Oliver Sar- 
gent 
Frederick Boyle. 
S56* A“ Good Hater... coco. 244 


Miss M. EK. Braddon. 


85 Lady Audley’s Secret. ..279 
56 Phantom For PUNE Ur 464 
PAONULOV mE LOVE occu ee oes 333 
110 Under the Red Flag..... 
153 The Golden Calf......... 297 
OVA NIXON caval: ouis On RQee OOe 
211 The Octoroon?. 6.382... 160 
234 Barbara; or, Splendid 
Ste MI BOLY oe eos Cet p geese. 256 
263 An Ishmaelite.......... 338 
815 The Mistletoe Bough. 


Christmas, 1884. Edited 
by. Miss Mw. EK. Braddon. yor 
434 wy ard’s- Weird.oc0 0... 312 
478 Diavola 
480 Married in Haste. Edi- 
ted by Miss M. KE. Brad- 
BOR a es Oe eae 240 


No. Title Pages’ 


487 Puttothe Test. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon... :363 


488 Joshua Haggard’s 
Dauehteris saa e seks sees 4 

489 Rupert Godwin.......... 369 

495: Mount Royal... 2.22.2... 431 


496 Only a Woman, Edited 
by Miss M. EB. Braddon.390 


497 The Lady’s Mile......... 425 
498. Only a Clod.......6e. 685 403 
499 The Cloven Foot........ 416 
511 A Strange World....... 429 
515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant..... 416 
524 Strangers and Pilgrims.473 
529 The Doctor’s Wife,..... 431 
542 Fenton’s Quest...... ... 240 
544 Cut by the County; or, 
Grace Darnel .......... 163 


548 A Fatal Marriage, and 
* The Shadow in the Cor-: 
ner. sivas 

549 Dadies: Gatless : or, The 
Brother’s Secret, and 
George Caulfield’s Jour- 


ee ese ets 


NOY Ks Se NR ee etek 
552 Hostages to Fortune. ..409 
553 Birds Of: Prey <u: . seces 414 


554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. 


(Sequel to ‘Birds of 
a Pd lf Shh pcan Pena SoG se 3897 
557 To the Bitter End.......459 
559 Taken at the Flood.....- 490 
560. Asphodel se 525s. see 456 
561 Pits as Iam; or, A Liv- 
DUO Ls AP sacle aa 437 
567 Dead Men’s Shoes..#.... 459 
570 John Marchmont’s pen 
ACVerws ee ne eee «+2498 


618 The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1885. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon. 257 
840*One Thing Needful; or, — 
The Penalty of Fate. ..281 
881 Mohawks...... A ee ine ee 515 
890*The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1886. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon,.252 
943 Weavers and Weft; or, 
** Love that. Hath Us in 
Aisi Net ase ce eee 206 
947 Publicans and - parte ed 
or, Lucius Davoren.. 
1086 Like and Unlikex. 2.03. 4 '402 
1098 The Fatal Three......... 357 
1211 The Day Will Come. ....415 
1411 Whose Was the Hand?. .877 
1664*Dead Sea Fruit.......... 348 
1893 The World, Flesh and se 


933 Nohody’s Daughter. Se- 
quel to “* Diavola”’.....265 





2 Cents a Copy, or Five Copies fer $1, Post-paid, 
















pen eree 


harlotte Me Mine Au 

thor of ** Dora Thorne.” | 
19 ‘Her Mother’s Sin; or, A 

a Bright Wedding Day.. 174 

‘ as Dora Thorne..... ...... 820 

_ 64 ABroken Wedding-Ring.336. 
68 A Wouee eee 


eee eee ear seese oe eer 





43 Redeemed - Love; or, 
me foes Love's Victory; or, 
Love Works Wonders. .240 
%6 Wife in Name Only; or, 
._..- A Broken Heart..... 287 
79 ‘Wedded and Parted...-. 
92 Lord Lynne’s Choice... .197 
_ 148 Thorns and. Se. 
PSL ING as 4 OC LOSSOIMIS.. ou Sed bers 5 lho 319 
“ 151 The Ducie Diamonds.... 
155 Lady Muriel’s Secret....185 
156 ‘* For a Dream’s Sake > 189 
- 174 Under a Ban........:. 270 
- 190 Romance of a Black Veil.160 
aS 194 “So Near, ‘and Yet So 
; SUES CNA aa tit Fee eRe tb ary: 
~ 220 Which Loved Him. Best? 





we or, Two Fair Women.,.184 
987 Repented at Leisure... .283 
244 A Great Mistake..... -. B84 

_ 246 A Fatal Dower.......... :249 





e 249 ** Prince Charlie’s Daugh- 
Gia! teres, OF, ‘The Cost of 


ee eee ee we cianr eae 
















+ Diana’s Discipline......244 
“254 The Wife’s Secret, and 
ae ht AAT DUL-E ASO chavs cass t 
_ 878 For Life and Love.. 
— 988 The Sin of a Pattie: 
or, Vivien’s Atonement.201 
985 The Gambler’s Wife. ...309 
- 291 Love’s Warfare....... 5 181 
292 A Golden Heart......... 184 
296 A Rose in Thorns....... 183 
ma nie The Fatal Lilies, and A ~ 
- Bride from the Be 


seer reese esse 





















More Bitter than ‘Death. 

304 In Cupid’s Net...... eget 
305° A Dead Heart, and Lady 

' @wendoline’s Dream. . 

306 A Golden Dawn, and ~ 
- Love fora Day......... ; 
807 Two factors: and Like no 


face eee eee eas 














Seti ee HEME Maia... a EP ASD 


4; 
480 A Bitter Reckoning. . 
433 My Sister: 
- 459 A Woman’s, Romp inion: Ove ay 
460 Under a Shadow........245 
461 His Wedded Wife........ 300. 


519 James Gordon’s Wife.. 
547 A Coquette’s Conquest. 304, 


322 A Woman’s ae aeey 173 
948 The Bhadew. of a Sin. 


Kates ee 


. 465. The Earl’s Atonement...254 
466 Between Two Loves..... 290 3 
467 A Struggle for a Ring... .245 

469 Lady Damer’s Seeret.. . .256 


| 470 Evelyn’s Folly.. 968 See 
471 Thrown on the World.. 


476 Between Two Sins; or, 

-. Married in Haste.. 

516 Put Asunder; or, Lady 
Castlemaine’s Divorce. 261. 

“518 The Hidden Sin.........312 


576 Her Martyrdom.........289 
626 A Fair Mystery: la The 


Perils of Beauty.. 456 | 


628 Wedded Hands..........358 

LOgs) GEISCIO A So fay nee co hse 234 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop: A 
or, The Romance of a 


Noung: Gitl oss 2c5 og Pe 1285 Yi 


745 For Another’s Sin: Or, Aes 
pels for Love Raa! hae 
Sree et 2: 


ed 


8. Aaa a Verdict, ei ‘ 


792 Set in Diamonds.........277 
807 If Love Be Love..........257 


ee ee ee ae ed 


822 A Passion Flower........ oor) 
829 The Actor’s Ward....... 815 
853 A’ True Magdalen; or, 

One False Step. ........ 364 
854 A Woman’s Error....... 286 


908. A Willful Young Woman. 282. 
922 Marjorie.........20.0..5. 346 | 
~- 258 
924 l'wixt Smile and Tear.. rH at 


923 At War With Herself... 


927 Sweet Cymbeline........ 353, 
928 The False Vow; or, - 
Hilda; or, Lady ae 


928 Lady Hutton’ § Ward; at 
Mt Hilda; or, The F’ MEV OW. 261 
928 Hilda; 


or, The False 
_ Vow; or, Lady Hutton’s 
a Warden a 


929 The Belle of Lynn; or, 
The Miller’s Daughter, £263 


; 931 Lady Diana’s Pride; or, 
One Against Many... Rrifeces oda 


es Ve 


933 A Hidden ‘Terror . 


223: 


























































































949 Claribel’s Love Story: 


952 A Woman's War. 
963 Hilary’s Folly; cr, Her 

: Marriage Vow........ 012 
955 From Gloom to Sunlight: 


er eee 


or. From Out the Gloom. 828 | 


958 A Haunted Life; or, Her 

pe OL OPI DIG Sib Voor dee 288 
- 964 A Struggle for the Right. 245 

967 Bonnie Doon............ 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or, 





Madame’s Ward....... '313 
969 The Mystery of Colde 


Fell; or, Not Proven.. 
973 The Squire’ s Darling... 160 
975 A Dark Marriage Morn..311 
978 Her Second Love... .... 198 
982 The Duke’s Secret....... 3835 
985 On Her Wedding Morn, 

and The Mystery y of the 

Holly-Pree.. oe 178 


i 


ceee ewer eter 


990 The ‘arke Error, and 

Arnold’s Promise......, 

995 An Unnatural Bopdage, 
and That Beautiful 
Lady ct aise. aoe 164 


1006 His Wife’ s Judgment. ...302 
1008 A Thorn in Her Heart. -256 
1010 Golden Gates......0..2.. 256 
1012 A Nameless Sin...... cnaeee 
1014 A Mad Love............. 70 





1031 Ivene’s Vow......... gone st 





i: | e013. One a canee Many; or, 
- Love’s Hidden Depa. “206 
19 2014 One False_ Step; or, oe : 

. 86 





on 8 


269 | 





Be Second Thoughts... : oe A 










‘Lady Diana’s Pride... 197 
True Magdalen... 
2015 Two Fair Women: zt OF, 
A ol Loved ‘Him 
2053 The Love that ‘Lived: Or,” 
Madolin’s Lover........320 
2068 Lady Latimer’s Escape. 236 
2188 His Perfect ‘l'rust.. 8385 















- Fredrika Bremer. ae 
187 The Midnight Sun....... 


Charlotte Bronte, — we 







215 Jane Byres. is .ees pees 3 
BTOSHIPICY citer cc cap neon ea eae 
944 The Professor... eer 









Rhoda Broughton. ett 
86 Belitida.) ies ees ‘261 





7 Nance 


ee co ee se 





sett eee ew ce me eee nce 


vests ets mao oa! bye, "Sweet. 
hearts ce ec Gees 344 
765 Not Wisely, Bubitoo Well gid 
767 Joan.. 
768 Red as a Rose is She. y 
769 Cometh Up as a Flower. Xi 
862 Betty’s Visions... 2.02... — 
894 Doctor ee iTS eo ae 


















1052 Signa’s Sweetheart. ..... 
1091 A Modern Cinderella.. 
1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife.. 
1155 Lured Away; or, 1T he 
Story of a Wedding- é 
Ring, and The Heiress 


401 


OP ATNEH oe | ia-vaisk eee 160 
1179 Beauty’s Matringer Pane ee: 
1185 A Fiery Ordeal.......... 206 
PISGAGUeIM ai CoN yea eel wasine 219 


1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation.324 


RBS CMILY Seals oc Aeon ial eee ue 187 
1291 The Star of Love....... ale 
1328 Lord Lisle’s Daughter... 
1338 A Woman's Vengeance. "O15 
1843 Dream Faces............ 296 
_ 1373 The Story of an Error... 299 
_ 1415 Weaker than a Woman.289 
1444 The Queen of the County.386 
1628 Love Works Wonders; 
or, Love’s Victory; or, 
Redeemed by Love.. 270 
1951 The Mystery of Wood- 
leigh Grange:... 252.22. 
‘2010 Her Only Sin... 0.0.4.4... 
2011 A Fatal Wedding..... .,.160 
2012 A Bright Wedding-Day; 


Re FS 


- 892 That Winter Night; or, 


ies: The Pilgrim’s. Progr 
or, Her Mother's Sin... 174] 











Robert Bubhiunes 


145 ‘Storm - Beaten?’ his ores 
and The Man.. 
154* Annan Water.. a@ 
181*The New Abelard. 
268 The Mar ae of Mad- 
C1NOR oe AS 
B98* Mathes, 20 vies tae yee 
468*The Shadow of ‘the 


ee i i a ad 


Sword 
646* The Master ‘of the Min 
































Love's Victory... Abe 
1074*Stormy Waters. . 
1104*The Heir of Linne. 
1350 Love Me Forever 
1455* Lhe momen oe 


alot : 
John hue 


see w eee e eee 


paints ated. Pe 





